Mune no Monogatari or, A Tale of the Heart
by Mirune Keishiko
Summary: Two years after Jinchuu, Aoshi and Megumi meet again. Over an eventful summer, feelings arise and fade, are revived, are forgotten, are remembered and understood. [COMPLETE]
1. Prologue

**A/N.** _O-bon_ is the traditional four-day festival of the dead, held on the second week of July. An occasion for religious services, family reunions, and general merrymaking. ^.^;

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

Prologue

Spring, Meiji 13

The air took on a palpable chill as the sun sank lower in the whitewashed sky.  Rain threatened in clotted clouds, and Makimachi Misao, clucking mock-sternly over the heedlessness of full-grown men, made her way through Kyoto streets bearing two brightly colored umbrellas.

From the Aoiya's wide window, Okina watched her skip past.  He was having tea with Okon and Omasu, but as talk turned to Niitsu Kakunoshin—who, they lamented, had not been seen in town for far too long—he found his gaze and his attention wandering.  Now he wordlessly tracked the lithe eighteen-year-old form until it vanished into the crowd, and then he shut his eyes and sank back in his seat.

His two companions tried to continue their chatter, but they glanced at him and knew.  They fell silent, fidgeting with their cups, staring out the window even though the young woman in blue had long since gone.

Shinomori Aoshi watched the first fine drops fall through shadowed eyes; breath left him in a sudden sigh that did not break his meditative rhythm so much as part gently from it.  Any minute now, any minute, she would arrive, and he would have to face her shining eyes.

Every day, such sorrow.

And paralyzed by such sadness as he had rarely been paralyzed by fear or fury in all his years of fighting and spying,  Aoshi would quietly accept her meek presence, answer her softly spoken questions, take the umbrella from a slender hand that trembled visibly, and walk with her what always seemed to be the long, long miles back to their home.

He knew now why he distanced himself so carefully from emotion.  It had not taken him too much meditation to see that.  Too close, and feelings tended to hurt far worse, and fester far longer, than any physical wound.  Now he hated how it trapped him, how it kept him from movement, from action—and every glance at the woman who stirred such freezing sorrow in him only served to drive this home.

But as always, in rationality was his salvation.  Two years was more than enough time to stay enchained.  He had hoped, at the back of his mind, that things would change—for him, perhaps, or her, or even both of them.  But only the seasons had changed, the maples from green to red and gold and back again.  It was time at last to let go of useless feelings that only dragged him down—dragged them both down.

Rain was dripping fat and fast from the eaves when those familiar light footsteps came pattering up the stairs and sent a fresh wave of dread through his heart.

She approached without a word.  He sighed again, inaudibly.  She would wait for him, as she had waited for so long, so patiently; she would sit down some paces away, alternating between her own meditation and keeping tabs on his, eager to serve any need that appeared, as if not knowing that he was acutely aware of her sea-colored eyes burning brightest when they fell on him.

Then again, perhaps she _did_ know...

 "Misao."

 "Aoshi-sama?"

He rose to his feet and turned to face those shining, endless eyes.  Perhaps, if the former Oniwabanshuu Okashira had the strength, he could give her at least a hint of the smile she so doggedly sought.  It had, after all, been two years.

Still, somehow Aoshi knew it was not going to happen today.

 "Once again, you need not have brought these."  Her gaze dimmed; her delicate pure face was crossed with shadow.  He longed to reach out and touch her, somehow make her smile again, but his hand stayed fixed at his side and he looked away.  "I thank you for your kindness."

Misao smiled—a small, hesitant shadow of her usual indefatigable grin, but a smile nonetheless.  She stood, hastily scooping up the two umbrellas that had been lying beside her.

 "You mustn't get wet in the rain, Aoshi-sama," she chided good-naturedly as she went ahead of him down the stairway, heading out of the temple.  "You know how Omasu and Okon absolutely hate playing nursemaid.  They'd as soon kill a patient as cure him, since that would be easier."

Her cheerful talk blended into the pleasant, lilting hum of the spring rain around them.  At the entrance to the temple, they paused.  He took one umbrella from her; as their fingers briefly met, the sweetest of blushes drifted across her cheeks.  Aoshi glanced away.

At the temple doors, they paused to open their umbrellas.  Misao's was her favorite, a pale blue one with golden narcissus blossoms.  Aoshi eyed without comment the brightly patterned orange and yellow one she had brought for him.

They fell into their accustomed places on the walk home:  Misao prancing ahead, as if unable to keep still, but frequently glancing back to where Aoshi followed at a more sedate pace.  Sometimes, when she remembered something to talk about, she dropped back to walk beside him; but Aoshi's calm, minimal responses hardly sustained conversation.  Soon she strayed ahead again, and only her voice raised in greeting to passing friends and acquaintances floated back to him above the hubbub of the crowded street.

As she stopped to talk with an old shopkeeper friend of hers, Aoshi too stopped obligingly to wait.  People had grown used to the two of them on the road to the Aoiya.  After the initial awkwardness, Misao had soon learned the futility of trying to include Aoshi in her conversations with others.  For now, he stood patiently some distance away, his gaze inexorably drawn to her as she laughed about something or other with the old man.

It would be her nineteenth birthday come the winter.  And though Misao thought Aoshi never noticed her, on the contrary, he noticed her quite well. She had grown a few inches over the years, had filled out a little more, though not so much that her characteristic free movement was hampered or her typically scanty clothing brought her any further scandal.  Her bright voice had grown a little cooler, as if she were learning to tame it, sacrificing childish exuberance for a more mature steadfastness.  The sensuous curve of her waist, the long pale arcs of her bare legs, the white skin that sloped gently from her throat—Aoshi never permitted himself to look for very long, but he and everyone else knew that Misao-chan was growing to be a fine, very desirable woman.

A woman who had, many years ago, surrendered her heart to his reluctant keeping.

When they arrived at last at the inn, Aoshi went straight to his room.  The sorrow of Misao's crestfallen gaze upon his retreating figure was only slightly dulled by time and repetition.

Okina appeared in his doorway soon afterward.  Aoshi bowed to his former teacher.  Outside, cold prickling spring rain continued to sweep the city.

 "I'll leave tomorrow on the business you gave me, Okina." 

The old man raised an eyebrow.  "And here I thought you were going to meditate for a lot longer.  This should be quite a trip, eh?  When do you think you'll be back?"

 "Perhaps in time for o-bon.  Perhaps later."  Aoshi paused and met Okina's gaze head on.  Age had not dulled the old man's perceptiveness.  "When it's safe again."

 "Are you sure this is how it has to be, Aoshi?"

Okina's already low-pitched voice had shrunk further to a near whisper.  As he turned slightly away toward the wide open window, the echoes of Misao's enthusiastic requests to let her help in the cooking filtered to them through the clatter of rain.  As much as Misao adopted more womanly ways in public, in private, at the Aoiya, she was still, defiantly, Misao-chan.

Again, Aoshi sighed,  very quietly.  "You know what's best for her, of course."

"And I know how you tend to think—not just about her, but about the rest of us, and yourself..."

 "Even so."  Aoshi bowed slightly, in silent apology for interrupting the old man.  "I think, even without that..."

 "Sou ka na."  This time it was Okina who sighed, stroking his little goatee with its absurd ribbon.  He did not look at Aoshi as he spoke, but stared out at the rain-darkened city.  "Try to get back in time for winter, then, at least.  Misao's birthday, you know.  The Aoiya needs you.  And whether you believe me or not"—he shot the younger man a glance—"you need the Aoiya."

Aoshi bowed wordlessly, in acknowledgement and in thanks.  Okina made to leave, but then stopped again in the doorway, looked back at him with clear, somber eyes.

 "You could at least give her a proper goodbye this time.  You do understand that, don't you?"

With the sibilant closing of the door, Aoshi was left in the lamplit emptiness of his room, the rain a beaded curtain outside his windows.

After another still, silent moment, he walked swiftly over to the lamps and extinguished them, one by one.  Then he sat down in the near-darkness, glad that the weather deadened the usual noise from the restaurant below.  Despite two years of constant meditation, it seemed he had yet to run out of things to think about.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  A very tentative start.  I hate to publish anything I'm not yet certain of, but I figured if I didn't put this up now, I never would.  I figure this kind of "premature posting" should pressure me into whipping this germ of a story into proper shape.  Fingers crossed. ^.^

I never used to even think about doing any story revolving around Aoshi, since he's an extremely complex character, therefore difficult to write and, conversely, terribly easy to botch.  But the rash of Aoshi worshippers that seems to have sprung up only relatively recently—is it just me, or was it mostly K/K and S/M way back when??—has made me foolish enough to try my own hand at it.  Let's hope this turns out well, ne?  I'd hate as much as any Aoshi-phile to ruin a perfectly good, perfectly hot-lookin' bishounen with a shitty story.  ^.^

I'm really open to constructive criticism here. So please tell me what you think via a nice, meaty review, kay? ^.^ Arigatou gozaimasu!


	2. Ohisashiburi

**Totally gratuitous A/N.**  Teensy note about the title.  Browsing through the wealth of Aoshi-romance fics, I find that most of them have at least some semblance of plot—usually banking on the Okashira's obvious talents.  So... I tried, I promise... but ultimately I really don't think I'm much for plot.  @.@  So instead of any exciting cut-'em-up Oniwaban-shiki combat-plus-espionage action.. sorry folks, but this I think will be my usual fare:  love, angst, and just about every other attraction that the human emotional carnival has to offer.  ^.^;  A tale of the heart then, and not much of anything else. ^.^

glossary:

o-hairi = "Come in."

o-hisashiburi = "long time no see!"

shimatta = S**t!

-nee = casually short for "-neesan", suffix denoting older sister (or older sister-type figure)

konnichi wa = Good day

-basan = suffix denoting aunt, or aunt-type figure

o-miai = a meeting for a prospective arranged marriage between two families, mediated by a mutual friend or a professional matchmaker.  Among the things discussed is the lineage of the two prospective spouses (has to be immaculate) and how well the wife-to-be enjoys cooking and childrearing (has to be _very_ well indeed). @.@

Kami-sama = God

noren = the curtains hung over the entrance to a shop or restaurant, to help keep out the sun and dust

tabi = split-toed socks

Okaasan = formal "Mother"

kitsune, kitsune-onna = "fox" and "fox lady" respectively; Megumi, of course ^.~

Tsurara-san = literally, "Mister Icicle."  Yahiko irreverently calls Aoshi this in the manga.  ^.^;

tonkotsu ramen = Chinese-style noodles in creamy white broth, flavored with pork bones

Mune no Monogatari 

by Mirune Keishiko

One:  O-hisashiburi

She had thrown the windows as far open as they could go, and a summer breeze toyed with short strands of her hair that had escaped the neat bun low on the back of her head.  Takani Megumi took a moment from scanning the patients' reports to tuck her hair behind her ear and smile out the window at nothing in particular.  It was a hot and sunny day, but a constant wind relieved the warmth and brought the delicate scent of roses from the lawn into her office.

As she propped up her chin on her hand and gazed out at the clear sky, a scrap of crimson, borne aloft on the breeze, caught her eye.  In through the window fluttered a single perfect rose petal.  Drifting slowly in contrary wafts of air, it settled at last, very daintily, on the surface of the cup of stone-cold tea on Megumi's desk.

Megumi chuckled.  She had, after all, completely forgotten about her tea.

A knock came on her office door as she sipped from her cup.  The petal she had fished out and now lay, slightly sodden, on her desktop, beside a stack of papers that was the morning's workload.

 "Ohairi," Megumi called, setting down her cup.

Ayano, the receptionist from downstairs, peered in with a toothy grin.  "Takani-sensei!  It's Kiku-san come to get you!"

Megumi very nearly dropped her cup.  _Shimatta...!_  "Tell her I'm busy, Ayano-chan," she forced through gritted teeth, alternating her pointed gaze between the cheerful young woman and the paperwork on her desk.

 "Now, Megumi-nee, you know she won't take that excuse again," clucked Ayano, hovering indecisively in the doorway.

 "She took it the last three times, she'll take it now!"  Megumi grabbed a sheaf of papers at random.  As she knit her brows over them, it took a few moments before she realized she was holding them upside down.  "Tell her I'm positively buried in work and... and that people's lives are at stake!"

 "Takani-san?" came a lilting voice from the corridor.  Megumi leveled a glare at Ayano, who, at a mere seventeen years of age, could only cower before the older woman's anger.

 "I told her to stay in the lobby!  I did!" whimpered Ayano.

 "Takani-san!  It's time, you know!  You'll be late!"

And sailing smoothly past the mortified receptionist, enveloped in her customary cloud of expensive, heavy perfume and tinkling jewelry, Oshihara Kiku entered Megumi's office with a huge, vividly painted smile that was both beatific and determined as hell.

Ayano hastily vanished.  Megumi was not one for visitors who entered her office without permission.

Megumi felt her eyebrow twitch.

 "Konnichi wa, Kiku-san," she said as calmly as she could, making a deep bow.  The imperious older lady chuckled, sending fresh waves of annoyance through the young doctor.

 "With such impeccable manners, darling, you make up for everything," she cooed.  Megumi decided to simply smile at her as frostily as she could.  "Now, hurry up and leave those dry, uninteresting papers behind.  We must get you ready for the meeting with Mizuaki-san and his family.  You are fortunate that you really don't need much primping"—nimbly she reached behind Megumi and plucked out the clip holding her hair bun in place—"but even so, we are running late."

Megumi sighed, restraining herself from violent impulses.  "Kiku-san, I'm sure Mizuaki-san will understand if we—"

 "Postpone this?  For the fourth time?  Not on your life, darling."  The veteran matchmaker smiled at her, eyes glinting fearsomely.  "You obviously don't understand what a rare find Mizuaki Keiichi-san is.  I went to a lot of trouble to set this up.  I am seriously recommending that you make this appointment before some other, inordinately lucky, _ageing_ woman snatches him up."

_That does it_.  Trembling with fury, Megumi reached behind her for the bell that would summon Ayano.  _So much for manners..._

 "Besides, your Aoi-basan is so very worried about you, darling.  You know she has only your best interests at heart.  Be a sweet girl for once and stop disappointing her, ne?"

Kiku-san's eye was still gleaming.

Megumi sighed, letting go of the bell.  This lady knew too much.

Some time later, elaborately coiffed and made up, her clothing transformed from her plain smock to an ornately patterned kimono, Megumi sat at the low table and smiled icily at the young man across from her.  For a moment he seemed dumbfounded by the deadly look in her eyes—and then returned a faltering, hopelessly captivated smile.

Quickly Megumi lowered her eyes back to her untouched teacup with a silent curse.  _Kami-sama, not another one_.  Beside her, oblivious to her discomfort, Kiku-san was busy matching wits with the young man's hawklike mother, who was frowning over Megumi's having her own career.

In the two years she had been living again in Aizu, the young doctor had been to four o-miai like this one, and had deftly eluded several others.  Most other women who were still unmarried at the age of twenty-four were usually dismissed by society as spinsters forever, fit no longer for anything other than tending their ageing parents or their married siblings' children.  But as Megumi soon realized, for good or evil, she was different.

Certainly her remarkable beauty singled her out from the crowd.  She occupied an administrative post at the well-known Sanada hospital in Aizu, but continued to practice; as a result, reports of the lovely as well as skillful lady doctor spread far and wide.  She was also of an old, widely respected family that conferred upon her, if not exactly riches, then prestige and honor.  And if all these alone hadn't had would-be suitors lining up, her family's old friends Sanada Hiroshi and Aoi would have seen to it that she found herself a good match.  As the old man liked to say, the least he could do for the only surviving Takani, after ensuring that her talents were used and developed in his hospital, was to find her a decent husband.

And so Megumi found herself yet again sitting in a private room at one of the better restaurants in Aizu, with a reasonably handsome, relatively prosperous young wife-hunter goggling at her over the table.   Mizuaki Keiichi, nineteen years of age, the third and last son of sake merchants in Kitakata to the north (father over seventy and surely kicking the bucket soon, no doubt leaving his booming business to his sons and their {wink} families, if his {rolling eyes} mother would just get her youngest boy a wife)...

That was all Megumi heard before she finally tuned out, refusing to learn no more of this useless information.  Apparently Kiku-san thought nothing of pairing her with a husband five years her junior.

And one ill-bred enough to openly gawk at her, too.  Sparing him one last thought—_Thank goodness he doesn't live here_—Megumi firmly ignored the glassy-eyed stare he was giving her and steered her mind to the latest research on consumption instead.

Thus distracted, she was only dimly aware of the slow and agonizing pace of the o-miai grinding at last to its end.  Megumi's straying thoughts were called back by Kiku-san's discreet elbow in her side.  The young doctor affixed a properly demure smile to her face, keeping her eyes daintily downcast, as she and the matchmaker bowed farewell to the enamored boy and his hawklike mother.

As soon as the two disappeared from the restaurant, Megumi heaved a relieved sigh.  She was surprised to find it echoed by the matchmaker.

 "The nerve of that woman!" huffed the older woman, patting her hairstyle to make sure it was still well in place.  "The way she carried on... One would think you were a common criminal, my dear!"

Megumi winced, but it was well obscured by the woman's hand as Kiku-san patted the doctor's cheek condescendingly.  "Of course, Orihara Kiku doesn't take just any clients.  That woman saw your lineage is pristine.  And it does seem"—the eyes took on a familiar, devious gleam—"that Keiichi-kun was totally and completely smitten with you, darling.  It looks like we've finally got something at last!"

Before Megumi could respond with a scathing retort she had lovingly composed over the last hour, the exultant matchmaker whirled and left, babbling something about another appointment on the other side of town and, more ominously, about having to set up a follow-up meeting for Megumi.

Dazed by the sudden turn of events, Megumi simply stared at the swishing noren for a long, wordless moment.

Then she shook her head with a small smile.  At least—with Kiku-san and her perpetual miasma of perfume gone—she could now breathe slightly less polluted air.  As if to savor this new fact, she drew a deep, fortifying breath.

One that speedily wheezed back out of her lungs when she saw Mizuaki Keiichi looming in the restaurant doorway.

Her heart sank straight down to her colorful tabi as he hurried up to her.  His gaze, when it fell on her, had not lost its starry-eyed quality.

 "I'm sorry to trouble you again, Megumi-san," he said, giving her a slight bow.  She felt herself stiffen in irritation—not only did this boy have the temerity to address her by her first name, he apparently also lacked the courtesy for a bow more appropriate for her seniority and station.   "But I couldn't help noticing how ill at ease you were at the meeting.  I must say I completely sympathize."  Megumi curled her fingers into fists, longing to wipe that patronizing look off his face with a well-placed punch.

 "So I was hoping we could meet in less formal circumstances," he continued, gazing down at her earnestly—despite his youth, he was taller than her.  "Okaasan and I will be in town for another week—would it be possible for us to meet again somewhere?  You know, to—to get to know each other."

He looked down at the floor as he spoke, blushing all over his face, scuffing the point of his Western shoe against the wood.  As he glanced back up at her shyly, Megumi sighed.  He was a picture of boyish bashfulness she found not endearing at all.

 "Takani-san.  We meet again."

The low voice swept abruptly over her like a wave of icy water.  Startled, Megumi glanced up at the figure that was suddenly at her side, towering over her slight frame.  Wide cinnamon eyes met cool blue ones.

 "Shinomori-san!"  In ordinary circumstances, the sight of him would have been decidedly unpleasant for all the memories it brought.  But for now, Megumi was only thankful for this unexpected way out of the conversation.  Before her, Keiichi shifted awkwardly on his feet, eyeing the handsome, formidably built newcomer with uncertainty.  "O... o-hisashiburi!"

"I apologize for interrupting your conversation.  I'm afraid that in my gladness at seeing you again, my dear, I forgot my manners."  As Megumi reeled from the endearment—which was shocking enough even with the utter lack of sincerity in his voice—Aoshi bowed to her and Keiichi.  Watching him suspiciously as he straightened back up, Megumi thought she detected a spark of amusement breaking the blue calm in his eyes.  "Forgive me, son.  My name is Shinomori Aoshi."

_Well, if he can do it..._  "An old friend, Mizuaki-san," smiled Megumi, edging the formally framed name with frost, primly tucking away her kitsune-like delight at the way blood flared across Keiichi's face—not least at being called "son" by this stranger.

Stammering through the necessary formalities, the boy excused himself quickly enough.  He hastily left, apparently having forgotten all about his proposal to Megumi.

She heaved another sigh and sagged against a nearby post, past caring about the obviousness of her relief.  Her elaborate hairstyle itched; she thought how delicious it would feel to take all the pins out.  "Arigatou, Shinomori-san."

"I did it to save his life."  Again, a current of quiet amusement underlying his even-tempered words.

Megumi gave him a faint smile.  "You understood correctly, as always."

 "It was fairly easy to read."

She shook her head, smiling ruefully.  "I take it you're by yourself?  May I ask what brings you to Aizu?"

 "Business."

 "Scoping out the competition?"

Aoshi paused.  "May I ask why you say that?"

 "Business," she replied archly, smiling at the annoyance that flashed across his face.  "Patients do talk, and the owner of the Sugi thinks nothing of holding business meetings even in his hospital room.  I've heard of the Aoiya's expansion plans.  I'd hardly expected you yourself to stop by in humble little Aizu, though."

The amusement was back.  "What would you recommend in this restaurant, then, Takani-san?"

Megumi knew better than to show the surprise that was rapidly mounting within her.  Still... Tsurara-san, playful—almost flirting?  She wondered what had happened in the last two years to change him so.

 "First of all, I'd recommend you bring me to lunch."  Eyebrow arched, she met his gaze directly.  "Then we'll see what's on the menu."

He said nothing, merely stared down at her with unreadable eyes for several moments, as if measuring, calculating.  Steeling herself against that dark, mirrorlike gaze, Megumi remembered herself, inwardly cursed her attempts at rapport.  What on earth had suddenly possessed her to be so bold toward him?  Her coy ways worked fine for ordinary people, but Shinomori Aoshi was certainly no ordinary man.  It seemed that since they last saw each other two years ago, she had already forgotten how truly impenetrable he chose to be.

She was already opening her mouth for a dismissive statement—one that would excuse the both of them from the embarrassing predicament she had so audaciously, so foolishly set up—when he abruptly turned away, toward the inside of the restaurant.

 "One of the strengths of the Aoiya is Omasu's tonkotsu ramen.  Shall we try it here, Takani-san?"

Megumi longed to laugh her kitsune-onna laugh, but whether at him or at herself she wasn't sure.  And so she gave him a demure smile instead and followed him into the Sugi, where the beaming waitress gave the well-matched couple the best table in the house.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  As "Yoake Mae" readers might note, I've appropriated here some fictitious, purely incidental elements I originally set up in that piece.  So in this story, Megumi is what we would now call a resident doctor at a rapidly expanding hospital in Aizu.  The hospital is run by the Sanada family, old friends of the Takanis who have sort of taken her under their wing since her return from Tokyo two years previously.  Megumi considers Sanada Hiroshi and Aoi uncle and aunt respectively.

I apologize in advance for what I foresee will be a rather slow update rate.  I'm still trying to get a good grasp of what the relationship between "fire and ice" will be like.  Rest assured I am conducting research (i.e. reading delicious Aoshi/Megumi fanfic! ^.^) toward this end.

Deep gratitude to all who read and all who graced this unworthy authoress with reviews.   I regret that for reasons of, aherm, artistic license (?!) I will refrain from answering reviewers individually.  Ohh-hohohohoh!!  But please be so kind as to keep 'em coming... I do appreciate all your input and try my best to put them to good use. ^.^

Just this for now, though:  So far I've got one reader voting for Sano showing up; and one reader vehemently wanting the toriatama totally left out of the picture.  Lessee... who shall prevail, ne? ^.^  As for the rest of the Kenshingumi making appearances... must say I'm stumped on this one.  Awaiting your comments and suggestions.

_Silly little last note._  How on earth _do_ you make a text-only smiley with fox ears?  This?  ^*.*^  (looks like a bat on methamphetamines)  ^-_-^  (looks like a bat on depressants)  ....arrggghhh!!!


	3. Over Lunch

glossary:

hashi = Japanese chopsticks

obachan = aunt, in a very affectionate/informal form

kanzashi = hair ornament

ojousan = young lady, young woman (younger than the speaker)

washi = rice paper

shoji = movable wood and paper panels

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Two:  Over Lunch

As it turned out, perhaps Megumi _had_ forgotten a little too much in the two years she'd been in Aizu.  Now, she remembered too late, Aoshi made an incredibly boring dining companion.  Given a life-or-death mission perhaps, surrounded by enemies armed to the teeth and trying to figure his way out of a booby-trapped castle labyrinth, he would have been in his element.  But as the courses wore on and Megumi grew tired of racking her brain for things to say, she realized the grievous mistake she'd made.

Not only was the man clearly uninterested in casual conversation, he was also clearly not much interested in cuisine for its own sake.  He nibbled at the pickled vegetables, sipped delicately at the soup, ate sparingly of the meat and fish.  Only the tea received much attention from him at all.  Megumi prided herself on her impeccable table manners and restrained diet, but beside Aoshi, she felt like an uncouth glutton.  _How on earth does he maintain a physique like that without eating anything?_ she fumed inwardly.

It was a good thing the food was decent and he was still cute as hell to look at, or the cheerless meal would have offered no saving grace whatsoever.

 "Takani-san, I must ask you," Aoshi said suddenly, his words breaking another long and awkward pause, "not to sabotage your own eating habits on account of mine."

Megumi started guiltily.  She had indeed been taking much less of everything since she had noticed his minimal intake.

 "Thank you for your concern, Shinomori-san," she said, amused.  "I think I did need such a reminder."  As if to make good on his advice, she took a generous bite of her rice and oysters.

He shrugged.  "You have hardly seemed to me the type to curtail your own will to conform with that of others."

Megumi hesitated, her hashi halfway to her mouth.  This man who was much more than an acquaintance but certainly not quite a friend—they were meeting again for the first time in two years, and she hated to ruin what had so far been a civil meal with a show of anger.  But this cryptic statement...

 "I apologize.  I meant that not as an insult, though you appear to have interpreted it as such."  Deep blue eyes stared at her unabashedly.

The intensity of his gaze, the clear blue that suited the cleanly handsome face with its cold beauty—it took all of Megumi's courage not to look away.  Not just because his intense way of staring never failed to unnerve her, but because—in a sudden flurry of dimly sensed memories—she suddenly remembered all the other times he had unnerved her so: his blue eyes seeming to pin her in place, scrutinizing the very depths of her soul.  The cold white walls in Takeda's mansion, the coarse laughter and muttered comments among his men, the insidious fragrance of poppy flowers...__

He must have noticed something of her sudden reaction, for he blinked, once, and lowered his gaze to his plate, leaving her staring into space, faintly trembling.

 "Perhaps we have both made a mistake, Takani-san."

 "Wh... what are you saying, Shinomori-san?"

And she realized, belatedly, that she was tightly gripping her hashi with nerveless fingers.

Keeping his gaze lowered, he reached over and quietly mopped up with his napkin the rice she had spilled.  "I'm saying that perhaps there are certain matters best left asleep, never to be awakened.  Again, I must apologize."

Megumi laid down her chopsticks—she had suddenly lost her appetite—and bowed her head to hide the cheeks she knew were stained with crimson.  Intuitively she knew that he was not referring to her dietary habits.

 "Perhaps you are right."  Her own voice, as it left her reddened lips, surprised her with its coldness.  Yet as inexplicably angry as she was at him, she knew the anger was also directed against herself.  Half an hour ago, coyly inviting herself along for his lunch, she had failed to foresee all of the unpleasantness of meeting him once again.  "You have always been a perceptive man, Shinomori-san.  Albeit a blunt one."  She paused, gathering the remnants of her strength—firmly shutting out the memories before they could weaken her further.  "I must apologize as well."

He was gazing at her again with those impenetrable eyes, and seemed about to open his mouth to reply when a tiny voice broke into the tension.

 "Obachan!"

Something soft and heavy plowed into Megumi's side, almost knocking her over, sending one kanzashi clattering to the floor.  Aoshi half rose from his seat, as a young woman hurried over to collect the little girl who was enthusiastically glomping a laughing, if somewhat disheveled, Megumi.

 "I'm so very sorry, sir!"  The young mother, trying unsuccessfully to disengage the child, bowed hastily to Aoshi, who had moved to pick up Megumi's fallen ornament.  "My daughter and I truly didn't mean to intrude.  We'll be off as soon as I—"

 "Do not trouble yourself, ojousan."  Sensing the younger woman's increasing embarrassment, Aoshi thought it best to cut her off.  "It seems your child is not entirely unwelcome."

Indeed, Megumi had tucked the girl under her arm in a hug and now beamed at the flustered young woman who was her mother.  "Tsukimi-chan!  What a nice surprise to see you here.  Is Jiro-kun here as well?"

 "Yes, he's way over there arranging for a table."  Sanada Tsukimi smiled in the direction of her husband, who was some distance away talking with a waitress.  "Again, I'm sorry for disturbing your meal.  But Yukino-chan escaped me before I could get ahold of her."  She playfully tweaked her daughter's ear and the child promptly screwed up her face—but before she could fully launch into imminent bawling, a glittering gold-inlaid kanzashi was placed in her chubby small hands.

 "Oh!  I'm so sorry!"  Tsukimi covered her mouth in embarrassment.  "Megumi-san..."

 "Daijoubu.  Yukino-chan actually did me a favor."  And laughing, Megumi pulled out the matching ornament from her hair.  Rich black tresses unfurled down her back, gleaming in the soft refracted midday sunlight through the washi panels.  Yukino-chan crowed in delight as she suddenly held not one, but two ornately decorated kanzashi.

 "Shinomori-san..."  Megumi caught Aoshi's eye; he had seemed content to fade into the shoji throughout the conversation, but now glanced up at the sound of his name.  "This is Sanada Tsukimi-san"—she hesitated; she had almost called the young mother her sister-in-law—"a good friend of mine."

Aoshi made a deep bow and a formal greeting; Megumi was amused to note the blush that flowed across Tsukimi's cheeks as she returned his politeness.  "Shinomori-san is..."  _Is what, exactly? _mused Megumi.  "...an old friend from Tokyo."

 "I'm very honored, sir."  Tsukimi gathered her child close, trying discreetly to pry the kanzashi from tenacious little fingers.  "We've long wished to meet Megumi-san's friends from Tokyo.  She always seems so happy when she talks about them."

Megumi glanced at Aoshi.  This man had, in fact, _not_ been one of the "friends from Tokyo" she sometimes casually mentioned to the Sanadas, but of course Tsukimi would not know.  If Aoshi found any of this odd or even ironically amusing, he certainly did not show it as he bowed again.

 "And I am honored to meet one member of Takani-san's newfound family here in Aizu.  You and yours have been so kind to her since the day she returned to her true home."

_Wh-what?_  Megumi shot Aoshi a bewildered look over Tsukimi's shoulder.  He seemed to notice it—he was staring straight at her—but made no discernible response.  _How does he know?_  So far she had told him next to nothing about her situation in Aizu.  Despite her preference for conversation, she had been too uncomfortable with his own incommunicativeness to go on at length about herself.

 "Oh, it's nothing," Tsukimi was lilting, a little suspiciously to Megumi's ears.  The young woman had given up trying to detach her daughter from the kanzashi and was now smiling at Aoshi a little too widely.  "Even if the Takanis and the Sanadas hadn't been family friends for ages, Megumi-san is a treasure who deserves to be cared for."

Tsukimi _did_ have a penchant for gushing, remembered Megumi with a silent groan.  And though she had been married to Sanada Jiro for over three years now, she was still _very_ appreciative of attractive young men.

 "Tsukimi-chan—" began Megumi quickly, not knowing what to say but that she had to interrupt before the other woman's gushing got any worse.

 "Tsukimi.  Ah, Megumi-san."  Jiro had approached, and now bowed to Megumi and Aoshi in turn.  Tsukimi quickly joined her husband, little Yukino in tow, the latter reluctantly conceding the pretty hair ornaments to the hand Aoshi silently held out.  "I hope we have not intruded on your private meal."

Megumi repeated her introductions; Aoshi repeated his greetings.

 "We shall leave you to your lunch," said Jiro solemnly.  "However, before we go, Megumi-san, Okaasan wishes to let you know—you're invited to the farewell dinner tomorrow evening for Weber-san and his colleagues."

Megumi looked up.  "They're leaving already?"

 "Yes, the day after.  They said they still had to go on to Hong Kong.  We do hope you can come, and an escort would not be inappropriate."

Megumi glanced sharply at Jiro, but he appeared absolutely innocent.  Always the serious, no-nonsense one in contrast to his flighty wife, Jiro soon excused himself and his family and left Aoshi and Megumi to themselves at last.

It was certainly shaping up to be a day of surprises.  Megumi blinked numbly as a waitress hurried over to replace the tea that had gone cold.

 "Per Himura's requests, I have been keeping some watch on your activities since you left Tokyo."  Aoshi sipped his tea.  "I believe he was concerned that certain... undesirable elements would find you here in your hometown.  He wanted to make sure you were left in peace."

Megumi let out a long breath she hadn't known she was holding.  "He did, did he?"  She glanced at him, but he was imperturbably eating a piece of fish.  She felt a relieved smile curve her mouth despite herself.  "Well, if Ken-san asked for it, I can't imagine myself complaining."

 "Would you have indeed complained had it been someone else?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, but his tone was utterly bland, and he devoted himself to his rice with apparent concentration.  Was the man actually stimulating conversation?  "I suppose so," she murmured after a moment.  She smiled.  "I suppose I would permit Ken-san, if no one else, to know my personal affairs."

 "Not even your adopted family, it seems."

Her smile vanished.  "Shinomori-san, I am aware that you used to make other people's business yours for a living, but I must ask you to refrain from doing so with me.  I know you can understand, being such a private person yourself."

The glint in his eyes told her she had hit home.  Megumi averted her gaze, feeling vaguely ashamed.  It had been so vehemently instinctive to her to hit back—but she could hardly explain why.

He said nothing and merely sipped his tea as she fumbled with her hashi, trying to resume her meal despite the restlessness that was suddenly consuming her.  Megumi bit her lip.  She couldn't name her feelings—but she sensed that she was getting dangerously close to something that would destroy her, destroy the life she had so painstakingly built in this peaceful town she called home...

...and that it was all, somehow, connected to this huge, hopelessly beautiful man who sat silently across from her, nursing his tea.

 "I shall inform Himura immediately of your wishes."  His cool voice slid clean through her hearing.  She gritted her teeth against his subtle correction of her—she had, in fact, misinterpreted his statements.  "Incidentally, I did not have to engage in any espionage to learn of your relationship with the Sanada family.  It is common knowledge that the origins of the onna-sensei are shrouded in mystery in these parts.  I'm sure you already know that there has been much speculation as to your three years away in Tokyo."

That was the most he had said to her today—perhaps, thought Megumi dryly, the most he had ever said to her.  Inexplicably irritated, she laid down her hashi and sat up straight on the cushion without another word, pointedly turning her gaze away from the half-eaten lunch to the sun-bathed garden outside.

 "You are finished with your meal?"

 "Yes."  With nearly any other companion, Megumi would have lied and said something about work awaiting her at the office.  But Aoshi, she felt, was above such petty deception; she chose instead to rime her tones with ice.  "It was all very well made, but I find I simply can't take another bite."

 "Very well.  We will call for the bill."

A waitress rushed over, and as she left with his payment Aoshi sank back in his seat, closing his eyes.  In the face of his apparent disinterest, Megumi felt the annoyance and unease slowly ebb from her body, leaving her feeling drained—and apologetic.

 "Did you find it to your liking, then, Shinomori-san?"

That took an effort, the carefree tone in her voice that made the earlier tension between them seem like a mere dream.  But she was well rewarded when he opened his eyes to look at her with... was that amusement?

 "It was an excellent meal.  Kyoto cooking will be hard put to prove itself."  His gaze caught and held her.  "But you don't appear well, sensei."

Megumi felt her eyebrows rising as of their own accord.  She hadn't expected her weariness to be so obvious.  But this was Shinomori Aoshi after all.

 "I'm a little tired, that's all.  First the o-miai, then... all this excitement."  She glanced wistfully out at the early afternoon.  "It's a shame to ruin such a lovely day with a lack of energy, I know."

 "Are you expected back at the hospital very soon?"

He rose, and she rose as well.  As they made their way through the restaurant to its doors, Megumi shook her head.  "I keep no clinic hours this day, but there's still quite a bit of paperwork to finish before evening."

 "Perhaps you would like to join me on an hour's walk around town.  I will be visiting various businesses and no doubt will make very dull company, but you might wish to reinvigorate yourself in the meantime by looking around the shops."

They were out in the street by now, and Megumi shaded her eyes to look up at him in surprise.  He met her gaze evenly, as if there was absolutely nothing unusual about what he had just done.

Megumi hid a sudden smile.  "That would undoubtedly restore my spirits.  Thank you, Shinomori-san."

He bowed slightly and said no more, and they fell in quiet step together along the street.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Sorry for the while it took me to update.  But I do think I've made at least some progress—getting a bit more of a grasp on exactly what it is I'm trying to accomplish in this fic.  Thank God, though, that school is finally over...!  In the couple of weeks I've got before my summer job starts up, you guys can bet I'll be putting a lot of time and effort into this story.  This is _so_ much more fun than schoolwork, definitely.  ^.^

On that note:  wheee!!! Reviewwwws!!! ^.^  Thankyouthankyou to **Candace, Trupana, Kichi-chan, eriesalia, Cherie Dee**, and **mij**.  Wow, looks like the A/Meg pairing does have a, um, vociferous fan base.  So very glad you're liking this.  ^.^  I hope the Darth Vader/grandfatherish tendencies don't alarm you too much,  **Trupana**-dono, though I really can't object to the Rhett Butler ones; Scarlett O'Hara is a personal hero of mine.  And as always, kudos to **eriesalia**-dono for her excellent Aoshi-caliber perceptiveness.  Sharp, very sharp indeed...!  ^.^  I'm also very honored to have some of the most respected names in fanfic-dom on my reviews page.  Your reputations precede you.  Believe me, as I mentioned in the previous chapter, I've been doing "research," and that means rummaging through all the A/Meg fics I can find.  Well, as **Trupana**-dono said:  I will try very hard indeed not to disappoint, that I will. ^.^

Last note:  I'll be out of town for an org seminar thingie from Sunday to Wednesday, so that's kind of why I've updated at this rate.  I hope I haven't sacrificed quality for expediency.  But I'm sure you clever readers will make sure to let me know if that's the case.  ^.^  And truly, I'll be hungering for the feel of the keyboard every moment I'm at that four-day writing sabbatical.  Probably trying to perfect my fanart, at any rate. ^.^

Thank you for reading!  Hope you follow this through to the end!  ^.^


	4. An Ordinary Life

**A/N.**  Rated **PG** (**P**erfectly **G**orgeous/**P**etrifyingly **G**oggle-worthy/**P**owerfully **G**ripping/etc.) for a few scenes of heinous, unabashed drooling over bishounen.  (Oh yeah, some **P**retty **G**risly angst too.)  You have been warned.  Pass the Kleenex.

glossary:

onna no baka = lit. "silly/stupid woman"

kitsune-onna = lit. "fox-lady"; if you can't tell who this is you are hereby sentenced to at least fifty hours of watching the RK anime/reading the manga.  Enjoy every moment, please.

-jisan = suffix denoting an uncle or uncle-type relationship

gaijin = foreigner(s)

tantou = essentially, a dagger or knife (though unlike a knife, intended particularly for cutting up human beings)

iya = "no", less formal; usually, but not exclusively, used by males

Sumanai yo. = I am very sorry.

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Three:  An Ordinary Life

Megumi eyed herself critically in the long mirror, smoothing the silken folds of her wine-colored gown and trying in vain to adjust the bodice so that it did not reveal quite so much of her pale skin.  When she finally looked up from her struggles with the corset, she found to her frustration that several wisps had escaped the elegant braids she had toiled over for the past hour.

She had just picked up her hairbrush to comb it all out and start over when there came a knocking at the door of her small house.  Startled, she dropped the brush; it clattered noisily onto her desk.

_Onna no baka.__  It's just Shinomori_.  Shaking her head, she took one last glance at her reflection, frowned at the fine wayward strands before rustling through the corridor toward the door, trying not to think that that was precisely why she was so nervous.

She had not seen Aoshi since they had parted ways late the previous afternoon in the street outside the hospital—he had, of course, walked her back to work.  Just before goodbyes were said, he had held out his hand.  For a moment she had stared at him in confusion, and then realized he was returning her neglected kanzashi.

In a split second she had made the decision she had been ruminating on during the entire walk back to the hospital.  She too retrieved something from her sleeve, and held it out to him.  This time it was he who glanced down at her, brows very faintly knit over blue eyes slightly wider than usual.

Pleasure and pride had flowed through her in warm currents:  She doubted many were able to completely confound him so.

 "I invited myself along to your lunch, but I certainly won't allow you to pay my way."  Giving him her sweetest smile had been a lot easier than she'd expected.

And seeing hesitation mar, very briefly, the accustomed intensity of his gaze, she had permitted herself a soft laugh.  Then, greatly daring—had he felt how her fingers had trembled against his?  how her blood had beat wildly in her wrist?—she had grasped the hands that hung idly at his side, brought them together, and placed within them the small, daintily wrapped box.

At the way he had blinked down at the present, the utterly disarmed, almost rurouni-like look in his startled eyes, she had felt two powerful urges struggle within her: the urge to laugh hysterically, and the urge to run away.  Instantly quelling both, she had instead given him another quiet smile and a bow.  "Please accept my apologies for my earlier behavior.  I have been unkind, Shinomori-san."

The words had been unnecessary, she had realized almost as soon as she had spoken them; in response, a ghost of a smile flitted across his mouth.  He had swiftly hidden the box in some pocket of his white coat and returned her bow.

 "I'm sorry to keep you further," faltered Megumi, feeling suddenly uncertain of herself, "but..."

She trailed off, feeling as though his cold eyes were raking her over.  "Takani-san—you, better than others, know I make very bad company for an evening's festivities."

 "Oh."  _Well, you didn't have to cut me off, at least_.  Feeling all-too-familiar annoyance sear her cheeks, Megumi half turned away.

 "...However, should you desire protection on an evening's journey across town by yourself, I am at your service."

She had caught her breath and glanced back at him.  He had surprised her, this time.  He stood straight and proud as ever in the street, gazing directly at her with eyes veiled by gracefully falling hair.  Afternoon sunlight had bronzed his handsome, impassive features, highlighted the odd bulge of her little gift in his coat.

Megumi had smiled then, and she smiled now as she hurried to the door as quickly as she could in the long, heavy skirts that caught at her feet and the corset that constrained her every breath.

It had all been so strange, the previous afternoon's events—he so oblique in his statements, she so unconventionally forward in her actions.  _He could've just _asked_ if I wanted him to escort me,_ she mused as she paused to make sure her earrings hadn't fallen off and her gloves were properly buttoned.

But even as she amused herself with her imaginary complaint, she knew—he had not wished to burden her with the awkwardness of having to reject such an offer, if she had found it unattractive.  And she had instinctively known that they knew each other too well for her to act the demure, deferential, perpetually indirect traditional woman she pretended to be with every other man she knew in town.

Shaking her head in dismay at how far her thoughts had wandered, she opened the door and treated herself to a feast of beauty.

Later that night, lying in bed running through the events of the day as she habitually did, she realized he had not been wearing anything entirely unusual—a black suit, a slim black silk tie, shiny black shoes, cream-colored gloves.  In fact, the only thing that had been remarkable about his appearance was the conspicuous absence of his huge white coat.

That, and the fact that with twilight's purple shadows gathering around him, the warm light from the lamp over the door gleaming softly in his hair and well pressed evening jacket, and glimmering only faintly in the midnight eyes that were gazing straight at her, he looked heartbreakingly gorgeous.

 "Shinomori-san."  With her bodice's failure to properly cover her body, she imagined her pounding heartbeat to be all the more horribly audible.  Smoothing over her awe with a hastily fabricated smile, she bowed.  "You appear to have misplaced your coat."

Times like these, Megumi realized she couldn't blame anyone for calling her "kitsune-onna"...

She caught herself with a start.  Now where had _that_ come from, when he had been nowhere in her life for nearly two years?

 "I left it at the inn."  Aoshi returned the bow; Megumi eyed him keenly and wondered if it were merely a trick of the light, or he were truly blushing.  "The evening is uncommonly humid."

She quickly returned her mind to the present.  "Yes, summer does seem to be coming early this year.  I had no opportunity to tell you earlier, but Hiroshi-jisan sent a carriage here for us.   It should be arriving shortly; I hope you don't mind waiting."

She had drawn him inside as she had spoken, and now slid shut the door behind him.  When she turned back to him, an offer of tea on her lips, she found him watching her closely, as though trying to understand something he had yet to completely identify.

She turned her head quickly, as much to hide a faint smile as to escape the heady gaze of those keen eyes.  So odd—once captor and captive, now merely guest and hostess—almost, though not quite, an ordinary pair of friends.

 "Some tea, Shinomori-san, while you wait?"

He glanced at her sharply, as though he too had been momentarily lost in divergent thoughts.  Then he shook his head.  "Thank you, no, Takani-san."  He paused.  "I do believe the carriage is arriving already."

 "Eh?"  Sure enough, as she strained to listen, the unmistakable rumble of heavy metal-clad wheels carried very faintly to Megumi's ears.

It seemed the Oniwabanshuu-trained hearing was still as sharp as ever.

She shook her head, smiling ruefully.  And she had just been thinking how naturally they seemed to fall into their places in this little, ordinary scene—as though they really were just another man and just another woman, caught up in the mundane excitement of preparations for a dinner party, on a balmy summer evening sweet with the fragrance of roses…

_Onna no baka.___

"I'll just be a moment to get my things, Shinomori-san."

Aoshi was nodding, already slipping soundlessly out the door to meet the carriage.  Megumi gathered her skirts in her hands and rustled her way back through the dimly lit house, trying without success to suppress the sad smile twisting her painted lips.

Amid the dancing and the eating and the chatting, the toasts and jokes and nonsensical little flirtations,  the attentive American doctors and the hospitable Sanadas and the various other guests, Megumi had very little time or energy for thinking for much of the rest of the evening.  Sanada Hiroshi had commandeered Aoshi soon after he had arrived, and though it was with a sinking feeling that Megumi had seen him vanish into the parlor with many of the gentlemen for a lively discussion of politics, she was pleasantly surprised to find him, some time later, calmly holding his own in the conversation while the other men listened and puffed reflectively on their cigarettes.  Reassured, therefore—though exactly on what count, Megumi decided not to say—she went on to wholeheartedly rejoin the merriment.

She was sitting by herself in a relatively quiet corner, resting after a lively polka with an Austrian whose bristly blond beard had very nearly caused her to sneeze several times, when she noticed that the parlor was discharging its contents into the spacious ballroom—no doubt on the cue of Sanada Hiroshi uncorking a second bottle of champagne.  A head of shiny black hair she glimpsed competing with the tallest of the gaijin; within moments she wished she had let her hair down for the evening after all,  for now she had nothing in which to hide her sudden smile of inexplicable pride.

Due to her best efforts, the smile was well tucked away by the time Aoshi approached, a tall flute of champagne in his hand.

 "You're not having any, Shinomori-san?"  And Megumi nodded her thanks as she accepted the drink.

He shook his head as he leaned against the wall beside her chair.  "Consider me overly patriotic, but I would prefer sake.  Supposing I actually drank it."

 "I hope you are enjoying yourself."  Megumi eyed him over the brim of her glass.

He shrugged.  "It has been a while since I was last in this kind of situation.  I have taken the opportunity to hone certain skills."

Megumi laughed—her kitsune laugh, soft but rich and deep.  Ordinarily she would have noticed the sharp, knowing look her Aoi-basan sent her way from across the room, but for now she was smiling teasingly at Aoshi and feeling the heat of the liquor pool comfortably in her stomach.  "Shinomori-san.  You make a dinner party sound like a training session."

 "It has served as something of the kind," he replied evenly.  But Megumi, gazing at him closely, thought she saw a flash of amusement in the shaded blue eyes.

 "At any rate, your _training_"—her tone was sarcastic; she rose to her feet with a smirk for his benefit, still clutching the half filled flute—"in the gentlemanly arts seems to have been well enough accomplished.  Not that this particular attention is all that necessary," she added as he followed her through heavy brocade curtains out onto a small, semicircular balcony.

As she leaned against the wrought iron railing, drawing deep breaths of the cooler night air while taking care not to soil or crumple her dress, he gazed up at the star-flecked sky.  "As the common owner of a restaurant in the new era, I find business expedited by some knowledge of foreign cultures.  The Aoiya must keep up with the times."

Megumi glanced at him, then drained her flute.  "Shinomori-san.  I don't mean to insult you, but you do seem to find life a bit less heavy upon your shoulders these days.  Or has peaceful country living simply dulled my wits?"

She aimed at him a lopsided smile—and lifted an eyebrow in amazement as something appeared to tug, for the briefest of moments, at the corners of his mouth.  She blinked, wondering if she had only imagined it.  But somehow, ironically, his unperturbed tone and ice-smooth voice told her she had not.

 "It does not appear to me that your wits have dulled at all, Takani-san.  You may, therefore, be correct."

He stepped closer to her, close enough for her to smell him—a faint, heated scent of skin and fragrant wood, wreathed near-imperceptibly in cigarette smoke.  Lightly he laid his hand above hers upon the empty glass she held, as if to take it.

But she stood absolutely still, delicate fingers tightening instinctively around the fragile flute as she stared up at him with blank, horror-filled eyes.

That smell, the heat of his body, looming over her, dwarfing her with its power...  Nothing had changed.  She was still _there_—in the cold, impersonal richness of one of Takeda's rooms—and he was standing over her, scorching her with his nearness, his hand poised above hers as she raised her tantou for the strike that _should have killed, Goddamnit had to kill _Kanryuu, cold soulless eyes boring through every tiny paltry hope in her soul, mocking her despair, paralyzing her with an incalculable fear that he did not care, none of them did, they simply _did not care _what happened to her...

Gasping for a haggard breath Megumi staggered backward, clutched at the cold iron railing behind her for dear life, watched numbly as he caught the falling flute with the same effortless grace with which he had twisted the blade out of her ignorant, inexperienced hands, so long ago but still not long enough...

 "Get away from me," she choked out as he straightened, the champagne glass sparkling in his hand.

He made no move toward or away from her as she stumbled over to the heavy curtains through which they had entered the balcony.  Suddenly the space between them was terrifyingly tiny, the brocade drapes seemed impenetrable, and as Megumi glanced fearfully back at Aoshi, the wide, shadowed expanse of the Sanada lawns spread out far below seemed to taunt her with her own aloneness.

Megumi pushed frantically through the curtains, trying to find the gap  that was suddenly eluding her.  She caught sight of Aoshi catching up to her in two great strides, his great height blotting out the moonlight.  Dimly she was aware of her own hoarse cries of "Iya!" when he caught hold of her wrists with one large hand and, ignoring her struggles, pressed the other to her mouth.

She bit him without stopping to think; only when pain flickered across his features and she tasted the metallic tang of blood on her tongue did her senses return.  Breathing heavily, she forced herself to stand still, to struggle no more.  Her hair—ah, those thick, intricate braids she had so carefully made!—had come loose, and she hid her face gratefully in the softly falling tresses.

He released her then, and as he stepped away she glimpsed blood on his glove.

 "Takani-san."

She nodded but did not turn to face him; she would not until she had regained control of herself.  Instead she practically buried herself in the thick curtains, wrapping her arms around her trembling body.  But the tears would not end—they streamed fast and hot and silent from her eyes without ceasing, as she had not allowed them to do for two years.

She only stopped crying out of surprise—when something soft and thick was suddenly, gently draped around her—and she wrapped Aoshi's coat around herself, sniffling miserably.  It still smelled like him, was still warm from his body, but at least he was no longer immediately near her.

When at last she felt strong enough to face him again, she found him standing motionlessly on the other side of the small balcony, leaning back against the railing in his thin shirt—as far away from her as was possible without actually leaving.  With his head bowed, his hair fell forward, concealing his eyes and the rest of his face from view.

 "Shinomori-san."  She cursed her own hoarseness, but knew it couldn't be helped.  She cleared her throat, willing her voice to cool and harden.  "Sumanai yo."

 "There is no need for your apologies, Takani-san."  He bowed to her, took one step, then another toward her, very slowly.  Stopping still over a foot away from her as the small space permitted, he pulled aside the curtain to show the gap Megumi had so blindly sought.  "I'm sure you wish to return to the party now."

She gave a soft, tired huff of low laughter.  "I can't go back there looking like this.  I'll have to freshen up."

 "Then I will leave you alone."

Eyes still well shadowed, he moved to step back into the house from the balcony.

 "No," she said quickly.  He stopped but did not turn back.  She fidgeted with the buttons of her glove.  "Shino—  Aoshi-san.  I would be glad if you did not leave me by myself for a while longer."

 "I do not think that would benefit you as much as you might think.  I shall find Tsukimi-san—"

 "Aoshi-san, don't presume to know what will benefit me better than I myself."

Calm, but not cold; irritation, rationality, a lingering sorrow and unease, even a hint of weary amusement—he found her low, musical voice fascinating in its richness.  Without another word he stepped back into the balcony, but paused a moment to secure the curtain so that half was gathered to one side, letting light, noise, music from the ballroom filter through.

 "You're injured."  Feeling somewhat refreshed by the cool breeze that now fanned her flushed cheeks, Megumi turned toward him, arming herself with her well-accustomed doctor's air.  When he failed to meet her brisk gaze, she lowered it to his wounded hand instead.  "Mou, I didn't know my teeth could cut through leather..."

 "It is nothing.  I have survived far worse."  Abruptly Aoshi stuffed both hands deep into his pockets.

She sighed.  Any other time she would have had the energy to argue him into submission—but not tonight.  Not now.

Silently she shrugged out of his coat, folded it neatly, and offered it back to him.  He took it without a word and put it on.

"Aoshi-san..."

His name—so recently, suddenly changed in the vague hope that something else would change with it—left her lips in a whisper.

He shook his head.  "If all you have are apologies, then I do not accept them.  I have my own to make"—he paused—"Takani-san."

She gave a short, dark laugh at that.  "Nor do I accept your apologies, Aoshi-san.  It's just..."  She sighed.  "It's just that something I've long wanted to simply leave behind seems to still be at my heels after all, despite all my efforts."

He made no response.  She glanced at him; shadows and hair still obscured his face, but somehow she knew he was watching her.

She looked away and walked over to the parted curtain.  Leaning against the thick draperies, she gazed wistfully at the brightly lit ballroom.  The first strains of a quiet waltz drifted to them from the hired musicians in the far corner; men and women, black and brown and yellow hair, in soft-colored clothing and glittering jewelry, lined up with laughter and banter for one of the last dances of the evening.

"This is my life now, Aoshi-san," said Megumi softly, watching as the pairs took the first, circling steps for an exchange of courteous bows.  "This is what Aizu means to me.  These kind, happy people who know me as no one other than a Takani, worthy descendant of an honored line.  Who see only my skill that saves lives and not the hands once stained with opium and blood.  Who love me for my father's knowledge and my mother's breeding, my brothers' courage.  Who could never imagine the horror I suffered for so long in the past."

She was weeping again.

 "This is the life I'm living now, and I love it.  I want to forget all that destroyed and defiled me in Tokyo.  I've started over here, and people accept me.  People have built this great world around the last of the Takani clan—part truth and part myth and part absolute lie.  It allows me to serve them, to touch them without fear that they will find the scent of poppy on my fingers."

Gritting her teeth, forcing herself to stop crying, she dabbed at the last traces of her tears with a handkerchief.  She continued to stare at the softly lit ballroom, though she had long since stopped tracking the graceful movements, the muted colors, the flash of smiles and jewels.

 "I will not see this taken away from me again.  I will not allow this peace to be destroyed.  I will fight, with tooth and nail if need be, to keep this new life that has been granted me.  I will not allow it to be poisoned by any pain, any sorrow, any powerlessness that went before."  Her low, steely voice changed slightly.  "Surely you understand... Aoshi-san."

He moved then, for the first time since she had returned his coat; he approached her, slowly, gaze set upon her pale, taut face as though expecting rejection at any moment.  But she resolutely avoided looking at him, until he stood just before her.  And then she raised her face to his, her cinnamon eyes clear and bright and hard.  He met them evenly.

 "I understand, Takani-san."

She looked away again silently, hating, with a voiceless, aching passion, that cold, smooth, perfectly measured voice that raised fine hairs in its wake.

 "But then I am sure you also understand... that to cut off a part of yourself, no matter how heavy it is or painful, is to exist as less than whole, as incomplete, as forever weak and vulnerable and empty."

Still she said nothing, though her brows furrowed deeply over closed eyes.

 "Feel free to inform me at once when you feel the need to leave.  I shall be waiting in the front gardens."

Her eyes snapped open at that—was that his gloved hand, a feather-light touch upon her tearstained cheek?

But then he was gone, slipping past her through the curtains with hardly a rustle of brocade or a whisper of wind to mark his passing.  Refusing to watch him go, she heard instead the faint clicking of his heels against the marble floor as he left.

For what seemed like hours, she stood there, half hidden in the curtains, eyes shut to the world, feeling still—despite the burning in her cheeks—the light, momentary brush of his fingertips against her face.

He, too, had trembled.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Kyaaa~  (flops over in a dead faint: a mix of empathetic trepidation, oxygen deprivation (holding her breath while she typed), and good ol' exhaustion (the darn roosters are crowing, it's 3:42 AM).)

I usually set my chapters at five pages, but this one overflowed to seven.  But I'm sure you nice people know exactly that feeling of looking over what you just scribbled, and being utterly helpless about cutting it at any point—knowing absolutely that _it mustn't be changed_.  Yare yare. ^.^

I hope you got caught up in reading this as I did while writing it.  (Or maybe I'm just really suffering sleep deprivation.)  According to what semblance of an outline I've got so far, I planned this sort of scene from the beginning—only it kind of morphed into a self-sufficient life form and headed off in a direction all its own.  Hope the angst is all right—I fear I may have overdone it.  After all, I've got such discriminating clientele to please. ^.^

The gift Megumi gave Aoshi should—if I don't lose my head again and forget entirely—have its own place in a chapter sometime soon.

I initially didn't want to do Yet Another Dinner Party Chapter where Megumi and Aoshi Scope Each Other Out—it's _so_ been done, with only so many varying degrees of cleverness and originality, in the movies and tv and romance novels and, yes, fan fiction.  But well... c'mon, we just all wanna see Megumi-chan looking pretty in a real ball gown, don't we?

_Trivial note about said gown_ ("wine-colored").  In the Kaden is a really nice image of Megumi in a bluish-purple period dress, so of course I wanted to put that in—but **eriesalia**-dono got dibs, so.  Oh well, the more fancy dresses, the happier we'll all be...  ^.^

**suki**-dono:  Uh-oh… uhh… no, in my head, the Sanadas here are _not_ related to the Sanada ninjas.  (slaps forehead) Looks like this unworthy one completely forgot all about that arc near the end of the anime… @.@  Gomen, gomen!  In truth, I was scrabbling for a name so I named them after Sanada Mitsuki in _Dual! Parallel Trouble Adventure._  This name is turning out to be way too popular…

Off (very definitely, this time) to my four-day seminar then.  Please be so kind as to submit a good, juicy review...  It should help to kick my ff-writer's butt back into action once I return.  Alrightey? ^.^  (Chobits-Sumomo style) Doumo arigatou gozaima~su!  (waves little pink hanky)


	5. Starless

glossary:

sou = "Is that so."

kiai = yell for focusing and expressing one's aggressive energies when attacking

kunoichi = a girl/young woman trained in stealth; a young female ninja

shinobi shozoku = ninja clothing/gear

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Four:  Starless

_Dismay._

_"Aoshi-sama?  You're leaving?"_

_ "Aa."_

_Disappointment.  "Sou.  How long will you be gone?"_

_Hesitation?  "It remains to be seen.  Perhaps until autumn."  Emotion?_

_Hope, then.  Courage.  "Won't you be back in time for Tanabata?  Jiya wants to set up a stall..."_

_ "I do not believe I can return that soon.  I have much ground to cover."  Calm.  Composure—broken._

_Emotion._

_Shock._

_ "Do not wait for me, Misao."_

_Emotion._

_Sorrow._

Summer overhung Kyoto in a stultifying haze of humidity and heat that was worsened by the rains that never lasted longer than several minutes at a time.  Okina tried to rid himself of the sticky feeling greasing his every movement by sipping his favorite tea on the balcony of the Aoiya.  Firmly ignoring the fact that every breath seemed a struggle against the stagnant evening air, he tried to occupy himself instead in the ordinary sounds that echoed from the inn and restaurant below.

Pots and utensils clinked in the kitchen, lively talk and the occasional chorus of laughter filled the common room.  Footsteps pattered coming and going among the rooms; guests chattered quietly to one another.  Greetings to prospective passing customers filtered up from the street.  Orders and comments passed from one staffer to another about firewood, tofu, sake, this customer's complaints, that customer's charms.  Over everything, the quiet, deadening prickle of summer rain.

And then, faintly through the buzz of it all, a feminine kiai: rage, despair, determination, triumph.

Okina shook his head.  Misao was training again.

She hadn't trained this hard in the last two years, had allowed other concerns to take priority over her martial skills.  No one had really pointed this out, as everyone tacitly agreed it was best in this enlightened age that Misao remained a normal, ordinary girl instead of a kunoichi—more preoccupied with lace gloves than arm guards, kimono rather than shinobi shozoku.  And so they let her help in the kitchen and around the inn, and made no mention of her daily trips to the temple.

But then the cause of her temple visits had left, and she had apparently remembered her neglected training.  Over two months she had seemed formidably intent to recover two years of only intermittent practice with her kunai and kempo.  If she stayed nearly all day in the training hall, if she emerged only to eat, bathe, and sleep, and then with reddened eyes that suggested tears, if her gaze lost its old brightness and keenness and her speech became dull and slow, still no one mentioned it.  Tacitly everyone agreed that Misao would snap out of it soon enough, given enough straw dummies to skewer with her anger-fueled kunai.

Except, perhaps, Okina.  The old man shared the hope that Misao would eventually recover, but he did not make so bold as to expect it.  He heard the shrill kiai dimly from the training hall and drowned his sigh in his cup of tea.

It was not long before he sensed her presence approaching; had anyone been watching, the only expression of the old man's sadness was in the hard set of his mouth as he set down his teacup.  Her ki had changed over the last six weeks.  Always before, Okina had looked forward to every conversation with her.  But now he dreaded it—if only because it pained him to hear that edged, hollow voice, see those dull, lifeless, darkly burning eyes upon his.

 "Jiya.  I'll leave for Tokyo tomorrow."

 "No, you won't."  Okina did not turn to face her.  "You'll stay here in Kyoto, and help out at the restaurant."

 "I've given him two months."

 "Two months to do what, exactly?"

 "To come back.   Since he won't do it, I'll go out there and bring him back."

 "He did say his journey would take long, and that he didn't know when it would be over."

 "You know as well as I do he was just saying that."

 "I know as well as you do that he told you not to wait for him."

A pause.  She was close, dangerously close...  She had not spoken of him with Okina or anyone else since his departure—and now she was treading the paper-thin line between ice-locked composure and sheer fury.  The old man braced himself and rose to his feet, then turned to face her in the semidarkness of the balcony.

 "Misao-chan.  Stop this insanity.  You know why he left."

 "No, I don't!"  She was trembling.  "He never told me anything.  He never did tell me anything!"

 "Misao."  He stepped closer to her.  The ocean blue eyes she slowly lifted to him were huge and shadowed.  "I'm very sorry.  But it's time to let go."

 "I can't!"  It came out a low, agonized moan.  Her slender hands, still encased in their leather guards, curled into fists.  "He never did say anything to me, Jiya!"

He sighed.  "He never had to, did he?"

She broke at that—he caught her as she fell on him, crying bitterly, her slim body shaking with her emotions, her fingers twisting into his clothes.  Soothingly stroking her back the way he had used to in her childhood, he let her cling to him as she wept all the tears she had kept secret for the last two months, and even after her sobs faded at last to a sniffle and hiccup.  He gave her his tea to finish, and the two sat in companionable silence for a long while on the balcony, watching as the rain gave way once again to a quiet, motionless night, the moon obscured by furrowed clouds.

 "Please, Jiya."  She spoke calmly, more in control of herself now.  "Just let me go, this one last time, to Tokyo, or wherever I might track him down.  I will force him to say the words if I must.  But I have to hear them from him."

Words were superfluous now.  He knew, and he suspected she knew it too.  But in the stubborn optimism of youth, if this was the only way to get her to accept reality and outgrow her foolish pride...

 "All right, Misao-chan.  Go to Tokyo, or wherever you feel you need to go to find the answer.  Just remember that this answer might not come from him."  He stroked her disheveled hair; even though it was thick with sweat from the summer heat and her training, it still smelled light and sweet, like a little girl's.  "Come back when you are ready to go on with your life.  The Aoiya will be waiting for you."

When she spoke next, her voice was grim and heavy.  "What if I don't come back, Jiya?"

His was stern.  "Then you cannot have been Oniwabanshuu."

She recoiled at that; and he wondered if he had been _too_ harsh, this time.  But she stiffened and stood up, and her eyes were hidden in the fall of her hair as she gave him a small, soft smile.  "Then I will certainly come back."

His proud, accustomed posture belied nothing of his silent grief for yet another ward seemingly astray.

She was gone before morning.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Argh.  Went through three and a half drafts and took up the better part of a day—changing viewpoints, characters, locations, weather conditions—before I finally ended up with this unusually short chapter that I wasn't totally dissatisfied with, for once.  My rationalization is that, if you put this chapter with the previous one, they make up the length of two ordinary chapters. ^.^

From the beginning of this story I imagined Misao chapters interspersed with Megumi/Aoshi mini-arcs; we mustn't forget the weasel girl, now, ne?  I don't know if it's just the effect of four days being forcibly away from RuroKen-kai, but I'm really wrestling with her characterization, and how her parallel story fits (or will fit) into the mood and flow of this whole piece.  Hoping now that you didn't notice anything odd or ungainly here, since that would indicate that I'm not completely off track just yet.  ^.^

Gratitude from the depths of my heart to those who read and reviewed the last chapter, and helped to properly boot up my fanfic-writing mechanism, which lay mostly dormant the past few days...**Hitomi**-dono:  Thanks, I did have fun!  **Rissi-Sama**:  Mainly the only thing the Jinchuu arc shows regarding Aoshi is that he's found peace with himself... so don't worry, there aren't any big spoilers here on that count.  **Cherie Dee**:  Yep, Megumi-dono is definitely one classy lady.  ^.^  **mij**:  I share your abhorrence of that white coat.  I prefer the butt-bow myself.  And believe me, the chemistry is all there, I'm just putting it into words, is all.  And hurrah for catching the KKnJ reference.  ^.^  **eriesalia**, thanks for such consistent patience and generosity in the reviews! Please do go ahead and link this to the Shrine of Fire & Ice; I'm deeply honored!  And I will humbly succumb to your beatings if _that_ ever does happen...  **PackLeaderT**:  Thanks very much!  Nice reviewers like you get me going.  Yes, I'm an egomaniac. ^.^

An additional note to dearest **mij**:  A truly frustrating glitch with that wretched Internet Explorer v6 is preventing me from replying to your email, but yes, same country, and yes, same university too, it seems.  My God, the world gets smaller everyday...! ^.^  I'm stunned.  I'll email you properly once I get the chance (blasted browser notwithstanding).  ^.^

Ah, screw unrequited love... @.@  But maybe not before we get a lot of bloody, angsty fanfic out of it first.


	6. Walk Home

glossary:

sumanu = sorry, sort of informal

Ojisan = uncle; also a respectful term for an older man

onmitsu =  spy or secret agent; the general term for Aoshi and the Oniwabanshuu in the manga

geta = the high women's shoes that go cloppity-clop (okay, not like horses...)

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Five:  Walk Home

Later that night, he would wonder how he had sensed her presence and recognized it as hers, from among all the other guests coming and going across the lawns and from the Sanada house in an indistinct crowd of nondescript ki.  Such intuition had worked for few yet in his life—Misao of course, and Okina and the others in the Aoiya; Battousai and his Tokyo friends; his four comrades; and much longer ago, some of his more noteworthy men and the great rulers of Japan whom he had served.  As for the rest...  even Takeda, who had had the distinction at least of bringing Battousai to him, had just been a blur in his awareness, yet another walking fog among so many of oily sweat and the rusty, dirty smell of money.

But he had been standing idly in the gardens, watching the street from where he blended easily into the shadows in his dark suit, when he had immediately discerned someone—Megumi—walking out the front doors.  Before he could wonder exactly how he had known, he turned and found her making her way slowly along the stone path, scanning the dimly lit grounds—no doubt for him.

Her cinnamon eyes fixed upon him as he emerged from his hiding place.  There was a strange look on her face, he noted—relief and humor and exasperation all at the same time.  Likely her aunt had been talking to her—a kindly enough middle-aged woman, but who undoubtedly possessed some kitsune-like traits herself which she had not let Megumi escape.

 "You wish to go home now?"

Megumi nodded, wrapping her pale rose shawl around her bare shoulders against the night; though summer made it mild, the occasional breeze still likely felt chill against her uncovered skin.  For a moment her weariness came to the fore:  She lowered her gaze, her usually straight shoulders slumped, and she stepped very close, almost as if wanting to lean on him—but stopped just short of contact.

He held out his arm.  She hesitated at first, glancing up at him with wide eyes, before laying her gloved hand on his sleeve.

 "Sumanu.  Alcohol always drains me."

 "It is also quite late, Takani-san.  Shall I ask for the carriage?"

She smiled and shook her head.  "It's no use; Ojisan's already sent them to bring some of the other guests home."

 "Then we should wait..."

She frowned.  "I was thinking we—I could walk instead.  I have clinic hours to keep early tomorrow and that carriage could take over an hour to get back."

 "In those shoes, walking will take just as long as riding, probably longer.  The doctors' lodgings are not that far."

 "And how did you find that out, genius onmitsu?"  Megumi's low tone was shot through with sarcasm.  Then, apparently realizing too late what she had said, she flushed, averting her gaze.  "I'm sorry.  That slipped out.  I haven't been thinking enough tonight," she murmured, briefly tightening her hold on his arm in silent apology.

He nodded briefly but made no response.  Her statement had not angered him as she seemed to fear—on the contrary, it had merely made him think.  And he preoccupied himself with his thoughts as they headed in mutual silence down to the gate, which had been kept ajar for guests to come and go freely.  In the soft light of the lanterns over the gateway, Aoshi stopped once again.

 "If you wish to clear your head, Takani-san, walking would indeed be a wise choice.  However, your shoes may do you injury in the meantime."

She was blushing as she looked up at him; strange and fascinating, the color warming her smooth pale cheeks, and at the same time the clarity of her eyes that told him she had no idea she was blushing so fiercely.  She had been blushing, too, on the balcony: beneath the tracks of drying tears a rosiness so stark against her white skin that he had allowed himself the indulgence of a brief touch of his fingertip.  It had been his homage, perhaps, to a woman struggling with so many strong emotions, yet strong enough herself to permit them to show only in a dash of color across the purity of her face.

He had touched her in that way only once before—two years and the madness of a lifetime ago.

 "I'm sorry to impose on you my foolish little wants.  If you wish to wait, Aoshi-san, then we will wait.  You are right—these stupid boots do risk ankle injury every minute I wear them."

Her voice was low and cool.  Had Aoshi been more given to open shows of emotion, he would have laughed to express his amusement that she should unconsciously mirror his own way of speaking.

As it was, he felt the corners of his mouth curling very slightly, as of their own accord.  A movement too tiny perhaps for the ordinary person to catch, but he was very much conscious of his body as all well-trained warriors are, and the involuntary, faint curve of his mouth felt like the flex of an entire limb.

She saw it.

Ah, the growing red in her cheeks.

Then she laughed.

It was very soft, rueful; this time he felt his almost-smile slip in his surprise.  She shook her head, looking down at her feet encased in russet satin as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her bag.  She didn't seem to know that these actions brought her hair within smelling distance; and the scent of roses drifted pleasantly to Aoshi's senses. 

 "I'll have you know I don't believe in these silly foreign fashions in the first place.  I feel like I'm ten years old and learning to wear geta all over again."

He barely heard her words; he was busy taking it all in—her subtly perfumed nearness, the light, quiet silk of her voice, the graceful laughter that had startled him, as things so rarely did these days, still echoing in his mind.  He realized, at that instant, that he had kept too long at the Aoiya, shuttered himself away from the world too much.  He had grown too used to the same old people, the same old things and events—and now this one woman was surprising him at every turn, her bright, unfamiliar fire warming him afresh where routine and repetition had numbed his spirit.

 "What you need, Takani-san, is practice.  A walk across town should help you master those shoes soon enough."

Fire was all right, but it still assuaged his personal pride to know that he, too, could surprise her.

Aizu at midnight was quietly asleep—it was still provincial that way, and Aoshi couldn't help contrasting it with Kyoto, where all was vibrantly alive even into the wee hours of morning.  Only his and Megumi's footsteps broke the stillness as they made their way through the empty streets.

Megumi seemed unaffected by the silence that had lasted unbroken since leaving the Sanada estate.  Despite her earlier comments about her shoes, she walked easily and gracefully as usual, with only the occasional misstep that she would deftly correct without missing a beat.  Her head was bowed as she walked, as though she were lost in thought.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she stopped and turned.  He glanced at her inquiringly.

 "Aoshi-san, I'm surprised at you."

She was the picture of indignation: hands fisted on her waist, brows drawn together, eyes sharp and clear.  Apparently she had already walked off the little alcohol she had drunk.

 "I'm sure you know it's very bad manners to let the woman walk ahead.  It makes me look like _I'm_ the one with bad manners, walking ahead of her"—she faltered—"male companion.  To a lesser man I would say nothing, but I trust you know better than to let this pass uncorrected.  At the very least you should keep up with me," she finished more firmly, glaring at him as his long strides brought him at last to her side.

He found himself smiling.

Damn it, he was getting soft in his old age.

Megumi looked stunned.

 "I'm very sorry, Takani-san.  It was an egregious lack of courtesy on my part.  I allowed myself to lose track of things, but I assure you it won't happen again."

And having hammered his mouth back into its customary stony set, he offered her his arm in his blandest manner—but in the long, slow moments before she thought to take it, she stayed rooted to the spot, staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.

And then her hand was feather-light on his arm, as though she were afraid he would crumble beneath her touch; and as they walked on again, she looked away, hiding her face from him.

Safe, then, from her gaze, he allowed himself to smile again.  He could find no particular reason for it, save for an utterly unfamiliar sort of vibrant feeling surging deep inside him that he suddenly found it absurd to fight or ignore.  It was something he could not remember ever feeling in his eventful life:  Pressed for words, he might have likened it to the inner blossoming of ice-rimed pride he used to feel for every enemy slain—but he knew instinctively that this was far different, far greater, far stronger, far richer, and that it cost him a senseless amount of energy to fight its sly, solemn curving of his mouth.  He found himself inexplicably looking down at Megumi's white, slender fingers splayed across his arm.

It was all decidedly strange.

 "I see Misao-chan has managed to find your hidden smile at last," she said lightly.

So much for smiling, then.

She seemed to sense the sudden drop in his mood.  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.  I assumed too much."

 "Misao has nothing to do with this."

Hesitation, curiosity, doubt flickered across her face as she glanced up at him; while Megumi might have been able to deceive others as to her true feelings, Aoshi was too seasoned a fighter not to notice.  Knowing prudence would restrain her from probing more deeply into his statements, he decided to answer the questions that shone unspoken in her eyes. 

They went on walking; they had left behind the wide, shop-flanked downtown avenues for the narrower, greener ways in the residential areas.  From the shadowed trees and bushes now bordering the street arose the placid, steady hum of crickets.

 "It is not for lack of trying that Misao has failed.  She simply has yet to understand that certain things are beyond coercion or imposition, beyond effort or will.  She is hardly used to her own spirit being insufficient."

What was he referring to now?  They were still talking about his smile, weren't they?  But he was staring down again at the pale hand on his arm, shapely whiteness against the black of his suit, and knowing only that he had never before spoken about Misao to anyone in this way—not to Battousai, who otherwise knew so much about him, not even to old Okina.

The last time he had taken that tone of voice, reassuring, patient, calm—perhaps it had been many, many years ago, when the Oniwabanshuu was still complete, when he was still the Okashira they all depended on, when time and the choices of others and the shift of circumstances far outside his reach had not yet hardened him with care and responsibility borne absolutely alone.  Since then he had felt acutely the burden of other lives weighing on his, and he had not been afforded the luxury of trusting others to understand his own thoughts—save only for those comrades who understood without requiring explanation.

He roused himself from his memories as Megumi's low, wistful tones stirred the evening hush.

 "She is young, that's all.  I'm being presumptuous, but I should prefer that she stay so naïve, rather than having to accept as she gets older that we sometimes simply aren't enough by ourselves, no matter how strong we might be."

He wondered if she had noticed her own shift in her speaking.  And if she knew that she had just now amazed him, by giving quiet, impeccably self-assured voice to the thoughts shifting back and forth in his head.

 "We're here."

As he raised his gaze to the archway of summer roses that marked the gate to her little house, he found himself silently cursing the way she had unsettled him so much that he was uncharacteristically aware of his own surroundings.

Perhaps that was why he chose to meditate at the safe, quiet, unchanging temple.  The constant flurry of motion and energy inside his mind tended to blind him to everything else...

 "I know I've troubled you greatly tonight, Aoshi-san.  So if it will not encumber you further at this late hour, it would be the least I can do to repay you for your kindness... to give you some poor refreshments before you go on your way home."

She was bowing before him, hair sliding down her shawl-covered shoulders in slippery black strands; and again she was blushing, but a smile curved her mouth and brought rosy lips closer to rosy cheeks.  When her hand left his arm, he suddenly felt unusually light and unsteady.

In sharp contrast, his voice as he spoke was impeccably controlled.  "Thank you, Takani-san, but I will not keep you further from your sleep.  As you said earlier, you have work awaiting you in the morning.  Your devotion to your patients must not be compromised by my own inconsideration."

Words of duty.  He knew them well.

 "I have no intention of insulting your hospitality, but I would prefer now to leave you to your rest."

She too knew duty well.  She would understand.

But her smile vanished, she straightened from the gentle posture of invitation she had unconsciously assumed toward him; a coldness seemed to settle on her features that had been so warm and bright mere moments before, and it too was familiar to Aoshi, and he wished then that he had said something entirely different—entirely selfish. 

 "You are right once again in correcting me, Aoshi-san.  You remember my responsibilities for me.  For that I thank you."   She smiled again, but it was cool this time, purely polite and professional.  "Permit me, then, at least as a physician, to offer you at least a cup of tea before you leave.  I know your inn is a considerable walk away, and I would not wish you to arrive overly tired and dehydrated."

She served him fragrant tea with the same clipped, immaculate calm, made exceedingly polite conversation about the weather and the state of his lodgings that made him feel as though they were meeting for the first time in their lives.  He was a strong, experienced warrior, but one look at her chill, imperturbable smile and mirrorlike eyes and he resigned himself to only the barest of niceties.  In less than half an hour he had excused himself, had made some smooth, inane request to obtain cuttings of her night-blooming feverfew for the Aoiya to which she consented with equal grace and blandness, and was walking down the street, hearing her gate creak shut and locked behind him, her swift, precise steps disappear into her house.

Her smile was before his eyes in the darkness, cold and calm and utterly empty.

And a terribly familiar sorrow tightened around his heart.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Oh dear.  Somehow Megumi-chan is coming off as terribly off-kilter—all this (seemingly) unprovoked sniping and snapping at poor Aoshi-sama.  She's just too beautiful a person to go on portraying as psychologically imbalanced, so... I should set about portraying Aoshi like that too.  ^.^  Is that what they do to each other—he constantly pisses her off, she constantly throws him for a loop?  Must... find... something... better... (sweatdrop)

Nitpicky note:  _Satin shoes:_  In "Little Women" (read: too lazy to really do research on turn-of-the-century women's fashion...) which is set in the mid-1800s, Jo mentions that Amy once painted a pair of old boots to "look exactly like satin."  I suppose, therefore, that satin boots already exist by this time.  They do sound very elegant, ne?  (If anyone else finds something to nitpick, please just let me know. [crosses fingers behind back])

Argh, this chapter really took a bit of effort.  Even then, it sort of petered out at just barely five pages.  I'm thinking I shouldn't hold myself so strictly to such meaningless parameters as chapter length, but at the same time, I'd feel kind of bad making readers wait so long for just so many pages.  At any rate, I hope this chapter goes over well with everyone.  ^.^  To be fair, I do think just a few more hours of listening to Craig Armstrong, the Blue Nile, and Thomas Newman should get me back into the angst/drama/stormily brewing romance mood.

I must say I also found it difficult to write from an Aoshi perspective; I wanted to break from my continually female POV for once, but for good or ill, what's emerged in this male-perspective chapter is a style somewhat different from my usual one.  Not totally different though, because I can see bits of my old style peeking through at times, and I'm not sure either if they work for the story. So I hope they still do.  ~.~ 

Credits!  **ChiisaiLammy** has perhaps, in some pseudo-telepathic way, picked up my subconscious longing for her to read and review this humble piece.  Doumo arigatou~!  I really appreciate your reviews—so substantial, your insights are really helping me discern where this fic can and should go.  (Also thanks for reviewing _Frost_!)  And do please continue _Water in a Glass House_!  ^.^   **mij**, sorry, I only realized myself that I hadn't explained about Tokyo _after_ I'd uploaded the chapter.  I'll explain properly when the time is right, I promise.  **eriesalia**, you're exactly right: "fun and scary" indeed.  I'm quaking in my rubber slippers. @.@

Well, well!  Must go on to the next installment then.  I think if I didn't have this fic to muddle over, my two weeks of break (before summer classes) would really be absolutely unproductive.  Thank goodness.  ^.^


	7. Chado

**A/N.**  Oyakuen, literally "Honorable Medicine Garden," is located northeast of Tsurugajou Castle in what is today Aizu-Wakamatsu City.   (Which is where I'm presuming Megumi is/would be.  I figure a prominent family like hers would have been in one of the biggest, oldest towns in the region.)  As early as the 14th century, farmers in the area attributed magical healing properties to a spring in that place.  The Aizu nobility soon constructed houses and various other buildings on the area.  It became "officially" known as Oyakuen when ginseng was successfully cultivated there in the 18th century.  It was opened to the public as a lovely garden-park with a pond and teahouse in 1953.

The _chakai_ is a much shorter and less formal version of the traditional Japanese tea ceremony commonly known as _chanoyu_ or _chado_.  The full-scale _chanoyu_ is a demonstration of the highest hospitality accorded to a guest.  While the chaji takes up three to four hours and consists of two elaborately scripted parts and a full-course meal, the chakai takes only around twenty minutes and usually only serves sweets known as _wagashi_, which are often beautifully crafted to look like seasonal flowers.  The discriminating _chajin_, or practitioner of the tea ceremony, can meticulously choose the type of green tea, the wagashi, and the tea things to suit particular occasions such as bidding farewell or celebrating an achievement and to harmonize with the current season, the time of day, and so on.

glossary:

obori soma = a kind of ceramic ware produced traditionally using 300-year-old techniques in the town of Namie in the Soma region in the Hama-dori district, southeast of Aizu-Wakamatsu.  Characterized by _ao-hibi_, or fine dark blue cracks throughout a creamy blue glaze, the result of a particular method of baking.

koi = Japanese carp commonly found in garden ponds; symbolize wealth and long life

chashitsu = the traditionally designed room where a tea ceremony is held

mizuya = the anteroom where the host prepares for the ceremony

hashiri-uma = pictures of running horses that characterize pottery and ceramics from the Aizu region

shakuyaku = a variety of peony brought to Japan from China in ancient times as a medicine; often compared to a beautiful woman

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Six:  Chado

She wondered if he had left already.  She wondered if he hadn't, and therefore where he was.  She wondered if the innkeep sent girls up to his room at night, as was the custom.  She wondered if he had already used the obori soma she had given him, if he had simply hidden them somewhere and forgotten about them entirely, if he knew why she had thought to give them to him—if he realized she felt that blue was exactly his color, and that the fine webbed cracks only added to the genteel beauty of the traditional craft. 

Then Megumi remembered to scold herself sharply for still thinking about him, four days after the last meeting which had ended on such an unpleasant note.  Four days in which she had not heard from him or even of him at all.

_Yare yare..._

She sighed and tossed aside the book she had been trying in vain to read all afternoon.  She was clearly in no shape to study cholera research.

 "Takani-sensei!" called Ayano, looking up as Megumi strode past her receptionist's desk.  When Megumi stopped and looked back, the girl stood up and handed her two letters.  "I'm very sorry to interrupt you, but this just arrived for you, and Kiku-san came by a little earlier with this other one."

Megumi grimaced at the name, and at the faint cloying perfume of one of the papers.  "Thank you," she muttered, knowing she sounded less than properly gratified as she tucked the letters in her sleeve.  "If anyone looks for me, Ayano-chan," she continued, "I'll be at the gardens till sunset."

The Sanada hospital was the most modern in Aizu; the Sanadas did not love tradition so much as to choose it over utility, efficacy and, when fancy struck, cultural novelty.  Patients and residents alike often boasted of the four-floored brick-built hospital with full facilities for surgery, confinement, and hygiene; and among other examples of modernization, the bare marble flooring of the entire ground floor was both impressive and practical.  Thanks to a rather overzealous English botanist who had endeared himself to Sanada Hiroshi, the gardens around the hospital spilled over joyfully with feathery summer flowers, deviating far from the meticulously controlled exquisiteness of Japanese gardens.  Instead of stone lanterns and koi, visitors were startled by oddly shaped wooden statues said to have come from distant islands, and struggled to contain their deep embarrassment when stumbling on the Italian fountain that featured water spurting innocently from a naked cherub.

Megumi also appreciated the occasional Western import; but often something in her longed for tradition amid so much exotic influence.  And when she needed to clear her mind, soothe it with familiar colors and textures with which she had grown up, she liked to go down to Oyakuen.

The bright summer afternoon saw many plants in full bloom by the gleaming stone paths.  Megumi paused just inside the entrance to draw a deep breath, trying to catch more fully the fresh scent of lilies that blew here and there on the breeze.  The sight of the familiar, beautifully kept gardens, punctuated gleefully by bobbing pinks and reds and whites, brought a smile to her face almost despite herself.

She exchanged greetings with Nomura-jiisan, the old groundskeeper who accorded her the same respect he had her father years ago, and thus allowed her to enter as he allowed few others.  A solitary man who preferred plants to people, he had come to understand over the years that Megumi came to the garden specifically for peace and quiet, sometimes—though not always—to browse among the hundreds of medicinal plants.  And so neither of them lingered over the pleasantries that did not lose warmth to brevity; and Megumi made her way to the teahouse, stepping slowly on the wet stones, delighting in the hush of the gardens that was stirred only by birdsong and the unhurried breeze.

She could not restrain a deep, glad sigh as she rounded the bend and came within sight of the old teahouse.  Here, at last, she could be by herself, sort out her thoughts before they rendered the day utterly unproductive...

She frowned, then, when she saw the lone figure seated on the engawa, facing away from the path toward the early-blooming irises on the other side of the house.

So someone had discovered her haven, too.  Well, if the Nomuras held this man in high enough regard to admit him into the garden, she could hardly force him off the premises, could she?

But then, as she drew nearer to the house, gaze lingering with some resentment on the intruder, her irritation soon turned to consternation.  She blinked and stared hard at this man with his back to her, partially obscured through the half-open shoji.  Halting by the entrance to the teahouse, she looked hard again, cursing the sudden, breathless fluttering of her heart.

No doubt about it; Shinomori Aoshi was here.

She hesitated again—for a wild moment she considered fleeing, simply turning and going back the way she had come, much treasured peace and quiet of her accustomed haven be damned.  Then she glanced again at him, a mixture of defiance and uneasiness; she would certainly not run before him when _she_ was the constant visitor and _he_ was the guest!  She turned to take the other side of the engawa—she would simply ignore him, that was all; she would leave him be, as that deeply antisocial man undoubtedly wished, and she _would_ have her quiet afternoon amid the lilies.  It was what she had come here for, after all.

Ignore, then, the quiet voice from the back of her mind that teased her for having had him constantly in her thoughts in the past four days, teased her for so ironically now being granted the wish she had not allowed herself to make—to see him again, at least just once more, before he left for good...

But he turned then, as if he had sensed her presence behind him, she who was turning to go but lingering for inexplicable moments, drinking in the sight of him despite herself.  As ice blue eyes fell on her, there was no escape.

 "Takani-san."

 "I'm sorry to disturb you, Aoshi-san.  I didn't mean to intrude—"

 "You intrude on nothing."  He had stood up to exchange courteous bows with her.  "However, I also do not wish to disturb you.  I am sure you came here to be alone."

Megumi smiled.  "I had presumed that the same went for you."

He shrugged, turning away slightly.  "Not all company wearies me."

She stopped at that, frowning a little.  Was that supposed to be a compliment?

"I came by to pay my respects to the Nomuras.  I leave tomorrow."

It struck her as odd that Aoshi, a man whose life had so continually depended on discretion, should voluntarily reveal such strictly unnecessary information.

_Then again_, thought Megumi, willing away the sudden, cold weight in her chest, _he's only making conversation.  He really was going to leave without telling me..._

 "Are you returning to Kyoto?"   She spoke slowly, striving to contain the disappointment in her tones, even though it was unlikely to have escaped him.

 "No.  I have business yet in Sendai before I can begin the journey home.  And then—"  He paused.  From within the teahouse, light footsteps padded across tatami.  "I might stop again in Aizu on the way back.  There are still some matters to finish."

Megumi nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak.  The shoji to an inner room slid open some distance away and out stepped a short, elaborately dressed old woman.

 "Shinomori-sama, please be so kind as to enter now."  The woman, straightening from a deep bow, caught herself and blinked smiling at Megumi.  "Ah, Megumi-san, it is always a pleasure to find you here.  Do you know Shinomori-sama?"

_Shinomori-sama?_  "We met in Tokyo two years ago, Nomura-baasan."  Megumi bowed in return.  She yearned to find out exactly how these two people, of all others, were connected, but knew it was none of her business.  "I shall leave you both to your private affairs, then, and wish you a very pleasant afternoon."

She was already moving to leave when his response halted her steps.

 "Perhaps you might like to join us, Takani-san.  Miki-san has generously prepared a chakai, and I am sure you can offer her better entertainment than I alone."

She glanced at him in surprise before she remembered prudence enough to lower her gaze humbly.  "I should not wish to intrude on such old friends," she murmured.

 "But surely this coincidence is not without its own meaning."  For a moment, there was a glint in his eyes as they measured her in their gaze—amusement?  admiration?  "Two old friends of mine"—he seemed to take particular pleasure in drawing out the words; Megumi stiffened in annoyance and embarrassment, that he had so easily picked up on her covert attempt to glean more information—"friends in their own right—I should like to learn how this has come to be."

Trapped, Megumi glanced over at the old lady, hoping to find some escape there—but Nomura-baasan was nothing but smiles as she elaborated hospitably on the invitation.

Soon Megumi was seated with Aoshi in the chashitsu, and Nomura Miki vanished silently into the mizuya to make her preparations.  Resigning herself to an afternoon quite different from that which she had planned, Megumi sat back and admired the flawless ikebana adorning a corner of the room.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aoshi sitting with his head slightly bowed, his bangs shadowing his face; she wondered if it were only her imagination that he was looking at her.

 "She was Oniwabanshuu."

Megumi stared down at her lap.  Somehow, after all this time, despite everything she knew to be changing, the sound of that name still chilled her.  "I guessed as much."

"She and her husband served us in this region for many years.  When we disbanded soon after the Bakumatsu, they opted to retire to this quiet life.  We have severed all official ties, but to them, when we meet, I am still Okashira."

Megumi watched him as he spoke, but his voice and his face were utterly composed and emotionless.  She shook her head slowly, trying to compose her thoughts for a response—but she relied heavily on reading and playing off her companions' emotions in ordinary talk, and Aoshi simply gave no indication of how he felt about his words.  Pride?  Shame?  Regret?  Or even indifference?

She paused, wondering how to frame her question.  "She does not know of... Takeda?"

Aoshi glanced at her, then away.  Still his face was impassive.  "There is no reason to believe so."

Nomura-baasan came in then with a tray of wagashi, and Megumi decided against further conversation.  The dainty sweets were brightly colored and shaped to resemble the flowers of summer: golden-hearted irises, water-speckled lotuses, elegant wisteria.  Megumi could hardly contain her wonder as she gazed at the carefully made sweetmeats—though she had participated in one or two other tea ceremonies in her life as her father's daughter, she had never before seen or eaten any wagashi so beautiful.

Aoshi had taken the seat farther from the old lady, and so Megumi prepared to take the tray first; but she was startled by Nomura-baasan going past her across the small room, straight to Aoshi, offering the tray with the deepest, most respectful of bows.  Aoshi, for his part, returned a similarly courteous bow as he accepted the sweets.  Megumi, watching intently, thought she saw at last a flicker of feeling in Aoshi's dark eyes.

She raised a hand unconsciously to her fast beating heart.

Aoshi chose a deep purple iris and made to pass the tray to Megumi, but Nomura-baasan smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly; he hesitated, then finally picked up a pink lotus as well.  His selection seemed to please the old woman, who then smiled almost apologetically at Megumi, whose turn it was to choose a piece.

Megumi gave the old woman a small, silent smile in return.  After all, he had been her Okashira...

As the wagashi melted delightfully in their mouths, Nomura-baasan set out the utensils she would need for the simple, informal ceremony.  Mutely Megumi marveled at the finely detailed wood inlay in the natsume: mighty horses, wild yet majestic as they tossed their heads in midgallop; the spirited hashiri-uma so characteristic of Aizu design.  The polished black pot was breathing clouds of white steam by the time the old woman laid out the cups that would be used for the ceremony.

Megumi started, then caught herself just before a word escaped her lips to break the hush.  She wondered how Aoshi had persuaded the old woman to use the obori soma that had been her gift.  She wondered if it meant anything in particular.  Glancing surreptitiously at Aoshi, she found him sitting straight, eyes peacefully shut, looking completely at ease amid the solemnity and old-fashioned grace of it all.

Not too long ago—the Okashira of the Oniwabanshuu that had guarded Edo Castle from the shadows, generation upon generation.

She turned slightly away so that, should he suddenly open his eyes, he would not see her flushed face.

She watched, enthralled, as Nomura-baasan set about the preliminaries of the ceremony—laying out the cups and various other items in their proper places, drawing the hot water from the quietly bubbling pot, wiping the first cup with a linen cloth as pure blue as a cloudless midsummer sky—all in a smoothly unfolding story of graceful arms and precise hands that told her the old woman was an expert chajin.

 "Please."  The old woman favored them with another deep bow.  "Partake of the wagashi as you wish."

Megumi hesitated.  She was no longer certain if she even existed in this still, silent room—in the deep, rich world of a history and a shared tradition known only dimly to her—that the old woman and her Okashira had seemed to conjure between themselves, in these long minutes of nothing but thought and emotion, conveyed with silent, unmistakable power in the lines of every perfect movement.

Beside her, Aoshi nodded calmly and reached for another piece, this time a white bellflower.

At Nomura-baasan's benevolent smile, Megumi reluctantly chose a lily.  She was almost sorry to dispose of the pale pearl-like glaze that glowed in the afternoon sunlight.

Again, it was Aoshi who was served first, the old woman bowing deferentially as she set before him the blue half-glazed cup.  Then it was Megumi's turn, and she ran the hot, pure liquid over her tongue slowly, luxuriating in the delicate, fleeting flavor of shakuyaku overlying the bitter notes of the tea.

 "You are certainly very talented, Obaasan," murmured Megumi gratefully, as the old woman put away the last of the utensils.  "I thank you for including me in this service." 

Nomura-baasan beamed at her.  "For such honored guests, I am ashamed to offer only a humble chakai."

She spoke to Megumi, but the brown eyes still bright in her old age strayed unerringly to Aoshi, who had remained staring wordlessly at the floor upon the conclusion of the ceremony.  As though sensing her gaze on him, Aoshi spoke.

 "Your undiminished skill raises even this simple activity to its true form as art, Miki-san.  I see no need for more formalities between us."  As the old lady eyed him sharply, he gave Megumi the briefest of glances.  "Takani-san is well aware of our past existence."

Megumi felt the blush creeping into her cheeks again as the old woman turned to give her an altogether different smile—the likes of which she had never given Megumi before, one that curved more slowly, more thoughtfully.  "I see.  You met in Tokyo, did you not?  Two years ago?"

 "Aa."

The old woman gave Megumi a slight bow.  "I see," she said again.

Aoshi rose slowly to his feet.  "I should like to discuss some matters now with Omatsu-san."

"Certainly.  At this time of the afternoon he should be—"  But Nomori-baasan cut herself off; with a half smile, she lowered her gaze before Aoshi.  "But of course you would know where he would be at this time, Shinomori-sama.  Nothing has changed."

Aoshi bowed wordlessly to both of them before turning and proceeding to the grounds; to Megumi he did appear to know exactly where he was going, as he set off without hesitation on one of the stone trails that wound around the pond.

She turned her head automatically as the old woman's voice broke the pause.  "I must ask you to return these to him, Megumi-san."  Nomura-baasan held out the small, solid wooden box in which the obori soma had been neatly replaced.  Her sharp eyes searched Megumi's as the younger woman accepted the box without a word.  "You do appear to be friends."

Megumi smiled.  "Do we, Obaasan?  I thank you."  She glanced out again, where the tall, black-suited figure towered over the graceful reeds by the spring.  "But I must confess, in honesty, that although I have known him for more than two years, I have yet to understand how it is to be truly a friend of his."

The old woman chuckled and patted Megumi's hand—a thoroughly unexpected gesture of affection that brought the doctor up short.  "That is no fault of yours.  I have known him for over twelve years myself, and still he does not inform me if his business brings him to this town; still it is the most I can do to stop him in the street and offer him a simple tea ceremony.  But he trusts you"—she chuckled again as Megumi turned to stare at her in disbelief—"yes, he trusts you and regards you as he does few others.  That is why I would like to make of you a request, Megumi-san, and I can only hope that our friendship will be enough to bring you to fulfill it."

"What is it, Obaasan?" asked Megumi patiently.  Indeed, the old woman had been a friend to her since she had first moved back to Aizu two years ago, supplying her with plants and roots from Oyakuen as she needed, teaching her herb lore she could find in no books from the West, understanding with an amazing ease when to talk to her and when to leave her to herself.

It was Nomura-baasan who had explained to her one day, as she idled by the flowerbeds, the old meanings of various flowers.  Wisteria was a traditional symbol of summer and stood for poetry and youth.  Lotuses, blooming in midsummer, spoke of the past, the present, and the future all coming together.  The iris was the emblem of the warrior.  The lily evoked feminine purity, the white bellflower gratitude.  And the shakuyaku celebrated female beauty, longevity, and...  

...and fecundity and marital happiness.  Megumi frowned.

She had quite forgotten; she had only listened politely to what she later dismissed as folk wisdom no longer to be taken seriously.  But then, Aoshi no doubt shared in the arcane, traditional knowledge Nomura Miki possessed.  Megumi made a mental note to ask him about it later.

Smiling, Nomura-baasan turned to gaze out at the garden.  Across the glassy pond, two figures conversed in the shade of a paulownia tree—one tall and proudly straight, the other smaller and somewhat stooped with age, but with his head inclined respectfully to his companion.

"As Okashira, he made the decision to lose the Oniwabanshuu to the shadows of history.  We left his charge a long time ago to lift the burden of our lives from his shoulders.  To him, we are but remnants of a mottled past that must now fade before the changes of the present.  And we are too old and too distant, our children too ignorant and made to stay ignorant, of all that made even the thought of them possible."

She sighed, closing her eyes.  Concerned, Megumi laid a hand on her shoulder, but her eyes flew open immediately and she patted Megumi's hand again, smiling.

"He is no longer Okashira, except to us who like to cling to our memories.  But he still tends to think like an Okashira—still imagines hundreds of fates hinging upon his own.  After all, one so well and fully taught will not easily forget his lessons."

"Nomura-baasan," faltered Megumi, unsure where she was going.

"So I would like to ask you this."  The old woman's smile was still kind, but her gaze was clear and keen as it fixed on Megumi.  "I would ask this of no lesser woman.  Take care of the Okashira."

Megumi's eyes narrowed.

"Obaasan, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you have been mistaken—"

The old woman laughed—no, cackled, and Megumi trailed off uncertainly.

"Megumi-san, I am not mistaken."  Nomura-baasan's tone brooked no argument as she folded both Megumi's hands in her own.  "But don't worry," she added quickly, seeing Megumi glance away.  "As I said, I would ask this of no lesser woman.  A lesser woman would misunderstand that there are many ways to care for another."  As Megumi stared back at her, she chuckled again, eyes crinkling amid the myriad other wrinkles in her face.  "There, you see?  You do not misunderstand."

"Takani-san.  When would it be best to stop by your house for the feverfew cuttings I asked of you?"

Megumi tore her gaze away from the serenely smiling old woman beside her to look up into Aoshi's dark eyes.  "I, uh... see no trouble in going immediately, Aoshi-san."

"Very well."  He bowed to the old lady as Megumi hurriedly stood up and put on her geta.  "My gratitude to you stems from the heart, Miki-san.  I am sorry to have imposed on you today."

"As I said earlier, Shinomori-sama, the slightest service I can do for you gives me the greatest honor."  The old woman bowed in return.  "I wish you well on your journeys, and hope they bring you here once again."

"I apologize on her behalf," muttered Aoshi as he and Megumi strode away from the teahouse.  "I had forgotten how she and Okina sometimes seem cut from the same cloth."  He sounded faintly embarrassed.  "She told me nothing about serving shakuyaku in the tea."

Megumi hid it in her hair, but she had no doubt Aoshi could still sense her slight, amused smile.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  _Egregious erratum._  I'm just thankful no one noticed, heh-heh, but in the first chapter (not the prologue) I gave two different names for our annoying ol' Lady Matchmaker:  first Oshihara, then Orihara.  I remember I decided the latter rolled more easily off the tongue... but then I forgot to replace its earlier instance.  So.  ^.^;  Will save replacing that chapter for a more energized time (read: lazy-ass bum ^.^).  But for now, she stands firmly named:  Orihara.  Sorry for the inconsistency and the forgetfulness.

Regarding the "gleaming stone paths":  Traditionally, the big blobs of stone that mark garden paths are wet regularly with water to make them stand out from the quiet matte tones around them.

Offhand, it was a bit rude of Aoshi to have invited Megumi to the ceremony when it was Nomura and not him who was the host; but as Aoshi is still Okashira to the old lady, I'd suppose he can pull rank in this case, and anyway the proverbial Nice Wise Old Lady character wouldn't dream of making Megumi go away, ne?

Huge bouquets of white bellflowers to my kind reviewers... **Tasya**:  Yup, this does seem to be THE MFEO couple of RK, ne?  All it takes is a little work to bring it out. ^.^  **cheryl**:  Thanks for the support!  **ChiisaiLammy**, **mij**:  Manalive… you do _not_ know how long I lasted on your supernice praise.  ^.^;  Buckets of gratitude for your appreciation.  On the flipside, though… now I'm so going to be paranoid about the rest of the story not meeting your high standards. @.@  hehe will try hard as ever to meet them, of course.  I write to please.  ^.^  **Cherie Dee**, **eriesalia**:  Hmm, great minds think alike? ^.^  Yes, Megumi does seem to have a lot on her plate… poor fox… I really am too hard on her.  Soon, soon, the angst-fest should be pouncing on Aoshi this time.  Things ought to be equal.  And "subtly sexy," **eriesalia**-sama?  Hee hee!  I sure hope so!  ^.^


	8. Unconcealment

**A/N.**  This chapter has been slightly modified due to a bit of confusion on my part.  My bad.  Gomen, gomen, gomen nasai! ^.^;  Thanks, **ChiisaiLammy**, for pointing it out, and so very tactfully too!  Where would I be without sharp readers like you, ne?

glossary:

obasan = literally "aunt," but very politely used to address women who are at least middle-aged and older than the speaker

uiro = a chewy, subtly sweet steamed cake made of rice flour and sugar; similar to mochi.  May be flavored with sweet bean paste, green tea, strawberry, chestnut, or the aromatic rind of a Japanese citrus fruit called yuzu

kuchiyaku = the "official mouths" of the ruling class.  They were trained intensively in poisons and drugs so that they could watch for these in their lord's food, clothing, and so on.  (Please see additional note below.  ^.^)

daimyo = the feudal lord ruling directly over a _han_ or province.  Nine successive generations of the Matsudaira clan ruled Aizu through the 300 years of the Tokugawa period.  In 1871 the _han_ system was abolished.  The last Matsudaira daimyo died in 1894.

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Seven:  Unconcealment

Even from far down the road, Megumi thought she caught a familiar, delicious scent in the air, and she smiled, half-consciously quickening her steps.  Hers was the only garden on this row of houses that featured roses.  When summer set the flowers blooming in rich masses of rosy petals, they served as a fragrant announcement to anyone coming down the road that they were nearing the Takani house.

Rounding the bend of the road, Megumi saw, from far off, that a woman was idling by her gate.

 "Is this an inopportune time?" asked Aoshi from where he kept pace beside her.  "If so, I can return tomorrow morning."

Megumi shook her head, straining to recognize the woman, who seemed familiar.  "I don't recall having set an appointment for this afternoon.  Even if I had, I certainly wouldn't have set it at my house."

As they approached, Megumi realized at last who it was with an inward groan.  It was Mizuaki Tsubasa—hawklike mother of Mizuaki Keiichi, last sighted six days previously at that horrid o-miai—and there was a devious gleam in her eyes as they settled on Megumi.

 "Should I leave?" asked Aoshi again.

Megumi sniffed.  "I don't see why.  She's the one showing up at people's private homes with no prior notice whatsoever."

Her last words were spoken in an undertone, as they drew near enough to the haughty-looking woman to be heard.  Megumi affixed her politest smile to her face and felt the last of the inner tranquility she had acquired at Oyakuen slipping away.

 "Good day, obasan."  She bowed.

 "Good day, Takani-san."  Megumi wondered if it were only rheumatism that made the middle-aged lady's bow so stiff.  "Forgive me for visiting unannounced, but there is an important matter we must discuss.  In private," she added with an icy glance at Aoshi.  He merely gave her a deep, courteous bow that left her visibly flustered for a moment.

_As if he'll  let a little look like that get to him._  Megumi saved her mischievous giggle for later.  "You must also forgive me, Mizuaki-san," she said aloud, her own tones sweet, "if I ask that we postpone this conversation at least for an hour or two.  My friend here has come on equally important business which he must conclude before leaving Aizu tomorrow."

 "Unfortunately,  my son and I are also leaving tomorrow, Takani-san."  The older woman was not to be outdone; her voice oozed fake friendliness.  "That is—whether we leave tomorrow or not depends quite entirely on the outcome of our discussion today.  I promise you this will not take much of your precious time."

Megumi paused delicately.  Violence was not a viable option, not even against such an irritating woman.

 "I would not mind waiting, Takani-san."  If a voice could be called refreshing in its coolness after all the saccharine that had been flying around, Megumi felt it would have been Aoshi's.  She turned to give him a small smile.

 "I apologize for this unexpected delay.  I understand you wished to return before nightfall."

From the way Mizuaki-san's eyebrow shot upward, the older lady did not miss the meaning of Megumi's none-too-subtle statement.  Nor did Megumi miss the glint of amusement in Aoshi's eyes.

 "Please make yourself at home, Aoshi-san, while Mizuaki-san and I have our conversation.  Mizuaki-san, do please come in."

Megumi sighed to herself in irritation as she boiled water for tea for her guest, who was waiting with a strangely smug composure in the common room.  Aoshi had taken it upon himself to wander through Megumi's little garden, _no doubt looking for somewhere to meditate_, she thought half crossly.  Meanwhile, she not only had to put up with this woman who irritated her with her syrupy voice and the unpleasant memories she evoked of the o-miai, she also had to feed her.  Grumpily Megumi fumbled for the uiro she had bought on the way home from Oyakuen.  She had intended to save them for an evening snack.

 "Just tea, thank you very much," said Mizuaki-san calmly as Megumi brought in the refreshments.  "You need not worry that I'll stay too long."

Megumi hoped her relief was not that obvious.  "What did you wish to speak with me about, obasan?"

The older woman took her time in answering, instead picking up her teacup and examining it with elaborate care—sniffing the rim, eyeing it for imaginary cracks, wiping the inside with a fingertip she then held up to the light for sharp scrutiny, before tasting it gingerly with a flick of her tongue.  Megumi watched mutely, annoyance compounded now with curiosity intensifying moment by moment.

At last Mizuaki-san held out her cup, as though bestowing on Megumi some great favor.  Gritting her teeth, determined not to lose her composure, Megumi daintily poured tea.

As Mizuaki-san sniffed at the hot liquid, Megumi felt something inside her snap.

 "I apologize for my poor meal," she ground out through a forced smile, "if it fails to meet your exacting standards."

 "On the contrary, Takani-san, the tea is of excellent quality."  The older woman smiled at her serenely and lowered the cup, undrunk.  "I was merely checking for inappropriate substances."

Megumi felt the last of her patience ebb.  "Obasan, please say whatever you mean.  It would benefit us both."

Mizuaki-san's smile turned grim.  "Very well.  I came here to verify whether the woman with whom my son is so pathetically besotted is truly a drug maker."

Megumi froze.

The cup she had been holding fell to the ground and shattered.  Through the layers of her yukata, she felt the spilled tea spread across the fabric, warm and damp.

Dimly, she saw the other woman smirk.

 "So it's true.  Takani-sensei, whose fame for her skill and beauty has spread far and wide, was a lowly opium woman for three years."  Mizuaki-san shook her head—and Megumi wondered feebly if, for a moment, she had truly glimpsed a look of sincere sorrow flash across the older woman's face.  "Using the knowledge of generations to make street drugs—Takani Ryuusei would be ashamed of you."

Megumi blotted dazedly at the tea stain on her lap.  _I know..._  "H-how did you—"

 "Believe me, I could tell."  Mizuaki-san smiled.  "My son refused to believe me, but now you've all but confirmed it, he can properly forget about you now."  She stood up, dusting tiny fragments of ceramic off her kimono.

Tiny pinpricks of pain came to Megumi from her hands as the shards pierced her skin, but she no longer cared.  She hid her face in her long hair as hot tears quickly spotted her kimono; hugging herself tightly, she tried to steel herself against the sudden trembling of her body.

 "You've kept the secret very well," Mizuaki-san was saying calmly as she stepped over the broken cup.  "Orihara-san seemed to have absolutely no idea.  I'm sure those kind family friends of yours, the Sanadas, don't know either.  And you had the gall to move back to your hometown and establish yourself as a full-fledged doctor."  Her voice was barbed with scorn.  "I wonder how you sleep at night, _sensei_"—Megumi flinched—"treating patients all day with those drug-stained hands."

Mizuaki-san walked past the shaken woman to the door.  "I just wanted you to know that you can't go on fooling people with that three-year hole in your history.  You're clever, Takani-san, but not everyone is that stupid.  There's nothing you can do to erase your criminal past.  So stop hiding behind your father's name and own up to your sins, and maybe then you can find redemption."  Mizuaki-san glanced back at her—and again, Megumi caught her breath, wondering if she had only imagined that brief look of cold, distant sadness amid the disgust.  "Although with so much innocent blood on your hands—I sincerely doubt it."

 "Speaking from experience, O-Kuroyuki-san?"

Megumi blinked and stared through her tears.  Aoshi hadn't been there a few minutes ago.

He stood leaning against the wall, head bowed, arms folded across his chest, black suit well complementing the gathering afternoon shadows.

Mizuaki-san was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

 "Black Snow."  Aoshi sounded almost bored.  "Once directly under the kuchiyaku of the last Matsudaira daimyo, she was quick to disappear after Aizu fell to the Ishin loyalists.  Only twelve years after the Restoration, she is now obscured in history, even though for two decades she was matchless in her mastery of narcotics and hallucinogens.  Now she wishes only to be loving wife and devoted mother in the anonymity of a rural town."

 "What are you blathering about, young man?  Apparently not only rude, but also mad."  The woman shot Megumi another withering glance.  "Appropriate enough company for one of her ilk, I suppose."

The next moment Aoshi had her by the arm, gripping it painfully in one large hand, eliciting a squeak.  Mizuaki-san glared up at him, trying in vain to twist her arm out of his grasp.

 "Of all the impertinent—"

 "You are right, O-Kuroyuki-san, I am rude.  I should have introduced myself first."  As Aoshi easily caught hold of her other arm, she stared fiercely up at him.  "My name is Shinomori Aoshi."

Mizuaki-san's eyes went wide.

Slowly Megumi shook her head, trying to dispel her confused emotions and think.  As she rose unsteadily to her feet, one hand flew onto the floor to stabilize her—and she drew a sharp, hissing breath as a shard of ceramic rent her palm.

 "Shinomori..." breathed Mizuaki-san in awe.

 "Of the Edo Castle Oniwabanshuu.  But you know this already."  Aoshi tightened his grip on her arm, wringing a cry from the older woman.  As he spoke, his voice never rising above a quiet tone of absolute certainty, she stopped wriggling in his grasp and merely stared at him as though entranced.

 "Now understand this as well.  This woman has gone to greater lengths than you would know to make amends for sins she was only forced to commit.  She has earned every moment of her new happiness with her own blood and tears; every life she ever took she paid for with a piece of her own.  You who cannot even begin to fathom her suffering—I will allow you to inflict no more on her."

He suddenly released her and she staggered backward, stumbling painfully against a low shelf set into the wall.  The crash of the flower dish that followed jolted Megumi from her awe, and wincing, she set about checking her wounded hand for any remnants of sharp ceramic.

 "You were never under my command, O-Kuroyuki-san.  For that you are fortunate.  However."  Aoshi slid open the door to the hushed afternoon.  "Remember this, if you ever think again to tell of another's past that will never outdo yours:  Takani-san is under my protection."

Icy eyes pinned down the woman cowering before him.

 "I trust you understand fully what that means."

He went out to shut the gate behind the woman, and, _as calmly as though he actually lived here,_ thought Megumi wryly, re-entered the house.

 "Nothing serious?"  He moved to stand by her, where she was kneeling and picking up the broken ceramic pieces.  A fresh bandage bound her injured hand.

 "Nothing serious.  The most superficial wounds hurt the worst, that's all."  She sighed, tossing one last chunk of cup into a tray and leaning backward.

For a moment neither spoke, Megumi kneeling silently with her face hidden in her hair, Aoshi staring down at her, blue eyes shadowed.

Then he knelt beside her, pulling on a pair of leather gloves he produced from a pocket.  As he picked up the finer fragments and placed them on the tray, Megumi stilled his hand with a touch from hers.

 "Thank you, Aoshi-san."

 "Your gratitude is misguided."  Peeling off one glove, he used it to brush tiny particles from the tatami onto a piece of paper she mutely handed to him.  "I merely brought to light certain elements of the truth that she did not know."  He glanced at her before picking up the tray.  "And that you yourself seem to have forgotten."

Megumi frowned.  "I don't understand—"

 "You would if you decided to.  As long as you choose not to understand, Takani-san, you will always seek to leave your past behind."

Glaring at his back which was moving off toward the kitchen to dispose of the broken cup, Megumi wondered how he had so deftly turned her appreciation into the beginnings of anger.  "I really wish you'd start using words like a normal person, Aoshi-san."

 "I'm saying"—he sounded faintly put-upon—"that what you went through in three years is not so shameful that you should completely turn your back on all of it."

Having placed the fragments in the garbage, he turned back toward her as he spoke, just in time to see tears fall once again.  She averted her face quickly, as if to hide her bitter sorrow.

 "Why must we talk about this?" she hissed through clenched teeth, trying to contain her emotions so forcefully a cold tremor jarred her entire body.  But the tears were already sliding down her face.  Cursing herself for breaking down, cursing him for being there to see it, cursing the meddling woman who had forced to the surface all the hellish memories she sought to bury—she covered her face with her sleeves and bit hard into the fabric to keep from whimpering, as the tears fell too fast for her tenuous self-control to stop.

She stumbled blindly outside, wanting only to hide from him and his intent, depthless eyes that seemed to see clear through her.  She gasped for breath as she emerged into the cool, shaded air of the engawa, clenched her hands into shaking fists as she struggled for control.  Suddenly weak, she sank to her knees.

When she felt his arms slowly, hesitantly encircle her, the wave of astonishment that washed over her was only to be expected; but then the feel of his warm, solid strength was too much for her, and burrowing into his embrace, she wept then as she had restrained herself from doing for more than two years.  Not the silent, tightly controlled tears she had shed at the dinner party, but wild, tempestuous sobs, soft incoherent keening moans of anger and grief, muffled desperately in her sleeves—the kind one wept at funerals, the kind that mourned the passage of a life dearly and bitterly loved, an innocent soul forever lost.

And Aoshi held her with a gentleness as palpable as his strength and far more surprising, as she had never dreamed it existed in his warrior's heart of ice; and as the crushing pain in her chest eased gradually into a softer, lonelier sorrow, she hardly dared to look at him, knowing the sight of his impassive blue eyes again would only drive her to doubt the silent sympathy he so tenderly offered.

 "You are too modest, Megumi-san, to see the truth in its entirety," he murmured in her ear—she wondered if she shivered from the sudden, smooth change of her name, or from his warm breath against one very sensitive spot.  "And hiding your modesty in fear and regret, you want to throw it all away.  But not all of it is as worthless as you deem it to be.  I will tell you now, and never again, what I have told no one in more than two years; and you will choose to understand at last."

Her self-possession seemed to have melted away entirely, and for a moment Megumi registered a dim and distant annoyance at herself.  But perhaps mastered by the quiet authority in his voice, she stilled against him, in the thrum of his chest as he spoke finding a restful rhythm against her cheek.

 "I threw away everything of myself to become Okashira.  When the shogunate fell and the Oniwabanshuu were cast to the winds, I was the only force that kept them alive, kept them from straying, from reducing themselves to common criminals as innumerable other warriors had done.  To be the leader they needed, I dedicated myself to the Oniwabanshuu.  Their strength became mine.  Their happiness became mine.  Their life became mine.  And when they were scattered by the paths of the new era, when the last of us fell to protecting worms like Takeda, their shame became mine."

She glanced up at him then without thinking; but his eyes were shut, his hair falling forward in a dark veil.

 "The ancient defenders of the shogun, now mere bodyguards for a merchant who had not even the guts to enrich himself honestly.  We chose to join him for the money.  You, however, were denied the luxury of choice.  Alone and orphaned, from the young and ignorant bedmate of a fallen doctor to the drug maker of a money worshipper—you were indeed one of little luck."

Megumi stiffened, averted her gaze.  Between the doctor who had taken her as apprentice and whore and Takeda who had taken her as opium woman, she had hardly ever known who was worse.  She realized now that Aoshi's hold on her was firm as well as light; and as she glanced back at him in sudden apprehension, the cool blue eyes asked her quietly to stay.

 "It was not for kindness that Takeda did not touch you.  Certainly he never spared you torture.  But you never lost your spirit.  Every moment that the Oniwabanshuu stood guard at his door, hearing the cries and the laughter within, I felt our dignity slipping away.  But you, Megumi-san, never gave up yours."

She caught her breath.  He stared at her evenly, the unassailable truth of his words broken by no hint of emotion.

 "You bore his beatings, the men's advances with defiance.  You manipulated the recipe as best you could—altered the methods, substituted useless ingredients, changed the measurements so often that the bruises from one beating hadn't healed before they were overlaid with bruises from the next.  My men and I could tell immediately, of course, having been raised among drugs and deception.  But since our duty was to safeguard the businessman, not his money, we chose not to betray you; and thus we spent the last of our tarnished honor."

The warmth of blood blazed across her cheeks.  She knew better now than to try to hide it from him.

 "Had I or one of my men been so soullessly entrapped for three years, I cannot imagine what we would have done.  Surely we would have fought to be free, and death would have been sweet.  But you, a woman in a house of warriors, had no such recourse, not even when you tried for the only honor left to you—and ultimately denied.  You tried to escape many times; and even as honor dwindled at last to a mere pretense for us, you even tried to kill Takeda even though you were utterly incapable, even though everything in your blood moved against it.  Yours was a courage and strength that would have been easily extinguished in a lesser heart—a courage and strength that then brought you hope for a new life even alone, when I who thought so much of strength and leadership only descended deeper into madness and dishonor."

Her eyes met his: comprehension dawning hesitantly amid amazement, and a single last tear he swiftly brushed away.

 "You humble me, Takani Megumi.  Before your spirit, that of the Oniwabanshuu Okashira bows."

~ tsuzuku ~

**Author's Notes upon Notes upon Notes.**  The _kuchiyaku_ bit is, I'm sorry to say, not absolutely sure on my part.  (Gomen, gomen!)  What I do know (thanks to Koike Kazuo's "Lone Wolf & Cub" manga) is that there _was_ a kuchiyaku for the Shogun as far back as the 17th century, and poison indeed was his function.  Obviously, a lot of people would be constantly trying to kill the Shogun.  What I've been unable to ascertain is whether daimyo had kuchiyaku too.  But hey, it sorta follows logic that they did, ne?  Especially since Aizu han was a fairly rich and prominent province that proudly supported the Shogun all the way through the Tokugawa era.  And the Oniwabanshuu likely had ties to them, being on the shogunate side too and all.

I was a bit scared at first about suddenly dropping this motherlode of info on what was at first a purely incidental OC.  I really did have this vague plan from the beginning of her later exposing Megumi's past (kicking up a tornado of angst in the process), but then when I got down to it it was one far-out idea after another.  (I toyed with the idea of making her Oniwabanshuu, but then—egad, they'd be all over the place.)  I don't think I'll be resuscitating her for a later chapter (she ought to be slinking out of town for good soon enough) but I feel kind of bad about puffing her up and then putting her down, all in a single chapter.  Hope poor Mizuaki-san is still believable.  ^.^;

For that matter, I earnestly hope Aoshi-sama is still believable.  @.@  I'd been stewing on that question of "why does he care???" for the longest time, and when I finally thought I'd hit on the idea (although I'm sure all of us Aoshi/Megumi writers have our own takes on the subject), I knew I had to put it in somewhere.  Unfortunately  (A) he's suddenly unusually talkative, and (B) here we've got, yes folks, another dialoguey chapter.  T.T  Which I was trying very hard not to do after all that yakking in "Yoake Mae," honest.

But after all, according to social psychology...  Mutual, voluntary disclosure facilitates interpersonal relationships.  Harhar.  Please forgive the jargon, if I got any clearer I'd have to end the story awready.  And I _am_ trying to keep him IC despite all this yakkety-yak.  (whine: But he _does_ talk in the manga when he _has_ to...!)  ^.^;  I promise, Aoshi will be his good ol' closemouthed self again soon enough.

Another apology/explanation:  Only in hindsight did I realize that I loaded a _lot_ of cultural/historical stuff into the last chapter.  I'm not sure why myself, or whether it was absolutely necessary.  (You guys decide; I'm biased.)  I sure hope it didn't weigh things down.  I hate explaining myself, but... I decided to put in Oyakuen after I came across it doing Net research (it was too much fun to not put in there with Megumi), and I wanted to convey Aoshi's past—the noble, illustrious parts instead of the usual "Beshimi. Hannya.  Shikijou.  Hyottoko" stuff—to Megumi without resorting to a dialoguey chapter.  (Case in point: this one.  =.=)  So you kind readers must see for yourself whether I accomplished my objectives.  ^.^

Thankyouthankyous to **mij**, who never fails to cheer and comfort me with her words of support.  I hope sincerely that I should never let you or any other reader down!  **PackLeaderT**, I'm so glad you like all these traditional tidbits too...  I haul my normally lazy cyber-ass all over Google for discriminating reviewers like you.  ~.^  **conspirator**, thanks so much!  I hope you will continue to give me such concrete, helpful feedback throughout this story, as I find myself struggling with almost every chapter.  ^.^;  Heartfelt gratitude also to the ever-hardworking **eriesalia**—I rummaged through quite a few tea and flower websites to get the right information, and I'm happy you enjoyed the little details.  On reading your review, I read **fujifunmum**'s fascinating "Dreams" myself.  I'm just glad our tea ceremonies weren't exactly alike, or I might find myself accused of plagiarism.  ^.^;

Geesh, look at all this blather.  Anyhow, do kindly Submit a Review before those darned withdrawal symptoms of Feedback Addiction Syndrome kick in again... please?  ^.^


	9. Motion, Stillness, Sound, Silence

**A/N.**  So sorry for the long wait, folks...  This is kinda what was happening over the past few days:

Shiko-chan (wrestling with Misao-dono):  Will... you... just... please... stay... put... so I can... angst you... up?!?!!?

Misao:  Hah!  Nobody angsts up the great Makimachi Misao!

Shiko-chan (swirly-eyed from all the kunai and Angry Demon Bird Kicks):  ...I can't handle this...

glossary:

engawa = oops, have I neglected to define this properly yet?? Gomen gomen!  Alternately translated/defined as a verandah, balcony, and porch, it's basically that open-air sort of corridor running around a traditional house

zabuton = big flat cushions to kneel on at table

otouchan (Kenji, "'toucha'") = daddy!

ki = spirit, energy, similar to the Chinese "chi".  Really brilliant fighters were said to be trained to sense this

kawaii = basically, "cute"; but applies to a whole bunch of slightly differentiated situations and objects/people in everyday Japanese conversation

onmitsu = lit. "a person of the darkness" or "one who moves in darkness"; commonly known as ninja

yakitori = grilled chicken on a spit

-kun = suffix denoting a close male friend or relative (see more on this below)

okaachan = mommy!

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Eight:  Motion, Stillness, Sound, Silence

Tokyo sweltered in the summer.  The humid heat thickened the students' skulls, hardened Myoujin Yahiko's in particular, and honed Himura Kaoru's temper to truly dangerous levels.

As another round of insults and shouts echoed from the dojo where Kaoru was supervising Yahiko's training, Kenshin shook his head ruefully over his laundry.  Some distance away in the shade of the engawa, sitting in a tub thoughtfully padded down with an old beat-up zabuton, nine-month-old Kenji played quietly with soap bubbles.

 "We should probably take your Okaasan down to the ocean sometime soon, Kenji-kun."  Kenshin walked over to his baby son and added another heap of soap foam to the mound that was rapidly evaporating.  "She needs some cooling down."

He shut his mouth just in time as Kenji, face scrunched into a tiny baby frown, smeared soap bubbles across his face.  Kenji then burst into giggles, proceeding to wipe suds all over his father's gi.

Kenshin laughed softly and picked up his son, shaking his head in half-hearted disapproval at the insolent mirth with which the baby immediately coated his hair with soap.  Oh, well, he would be taking a cold bath soon enough anyway, with such a hot afternoon.

 "Shao."

Kenshin's eyes bugged out.  "Oro?"

 "'Toucha', shao!" insisted Kenji, yanking hard on his father's hair.  Kenshin was so stunned he forgot the pain; he sat down with a thump on the engawa, still clutching Kenji weakly, his mind reeling in surprise and joy.

Then, with his son still shouting "Shao!" in his newfound baby voice, he sensed it.

It was not killing ki, not even ki that was menacing in any way; but it was ki nonetheless, and it was extremely close—close enough for him to place Kenji carefully back in his tub and prepare himself.

 "'Toucha'!" repeated Kenji irritably.

The ki was getting nearer.  Kenshin tensed, probing that ki with all his might.  He knew who it was, he was sure of it—it was urgently familiar, and his strange inability to identify exactly whose it was frustrated him.  The unshakable sense of recognition made it equally likely to be that of a friend as that of an enemy.  But what friend would be stealing into the dojo and stealthily approaching his child?

Kenji glared at his father indignantly.  "Shao!"

 "Kenji-kun..." began Kenshin soothingly.

 "'Toucha'!  Shao!"

A feminine shriek.

And then Kenji was glomping Misao as enthusiastically as he could, and she was cuddling him close with a delighted stream of babble that was only slightly less incoherent than his.  Kenshin hit the floor in a daze of relief.

 "Kawaii!!  He's talking!  He's talking!  Didja hear that, Himura?  He actually called my name!  How long has this been going on?  And at barely ten months, too!  What do you feed this kid, Himura?  Maybe he's a genius, or do I just have that charm with kids too?  I spend a little winter with you guys and imprint myself on his memory forever.  He's a lot more perceptive than his 'touchan.  This little prodigy loves his Misao-basan, don't you, you itty-bitty widdle cutiekins?"  Kenji gurgled excitedly as Misao stuck her beaming face in his.  "Himura, your kid is just too...  Himura?"

Misao arched an eyebrow at the spiral-eyed Kenshin, who was just recovering from the shock.

 "Are you okay?  Maybe heatstroke," murmured Misao, feeling Kenshin's forehead with her hand.

 "I'm fine, I'm fine," said Kenshin cheerfully, blinking away the spirals in his eyes.  "Good to see you again, Misao-dono.  Were you creeping up on the roof?"

 "Yep!"  Misao struck a pose, as Kenji chewed and drooled on the end of her braid.  "Makimachi Misao, onmitsu extraordinaire, mustn't let her skills fade even in this enlightened age!  Although I could have made yakitori up on those shingles," she finished, rolling her eyes.

 "Kaoru is with her class, but she'll be very happy to see you, that she will.  She will also be pleased to know that Kenji-kun has spoken his first words."  Kenshin beamed as he reached out for his son—just in time before Misao let out another shrill shriek that could have broken baby eardrums.

 "Really?!  First words??  So does that mean he only finally spoke today, and then he said my name?!"  Laughing proudly, Misao cut a crazy dance across the courtyard.  Kenji, watching her with avid interest over his father's arm, happily babbled, "Shao!  Shao!"

 " 'Misao, Misao!' he says!  Smartest kid I ever saw!"  Taking him from Kenshin and whirling him around till he squealed in delight, Misao finally planted Kenji on her shoulders and headed for the training hall.

Kenshin, smiling as he heard loud genki greetings interrupt the students' measured shouts, headed off to the kitchen.  Pleasure and pride were quickly dissolving into fear and doubt, and he needed to be by himself to think things through.  Misao was right:  At less than ten months of age, Kenji was truly precocious to already be speaking.

As he set about slicing a watermelon for their guest, he remembered those deep purple eyes, staring solemnly up at him.  People often said they were so like his own; and busy exclaiming over Kenji's antics, they also often failed to notice Kenshin's dismay.

Misao's last visit to the dojo had ended five months ago, and though he and Kaoru had occasionally talked about her and the others at the Aoiya, he didn't remember having spoken of her recently enough for Kenji to simply repeat the name at random.  There were other possibilities to consider, of course, not all of them entirely improbable, but as Kenshin laid out the fruit on a dish, he couldn't help wondering—

Could tiny Kenji sense ki?

 "Oei, Himura!  I've just arrived and here you are moping in the kitchen!  Over food no less!  You should have more respect for such a delicious-looking watermelon!"  Misao playfully bapped Kenshin on the head, eliciting a yelp of "Oro!"

They gathered on the engawa, Kaoru having momentarily assigned her students to do a thousand practice swings.  Kenshin decided to dismiss his more serious thoughts for the moment.  For now, as Misao cheerfully updated Kaoru on Okina, Okon, and Omasu, he was content to slice watermelon into small ruby-red chunks and poke them carefully into Kenji's hungry mouth one at a time.

 "So what brings you here, Misao-chan?  Or are you just passing through on your way somewhere else?" Kaoru paused in cuddling Kenji to let Kenshin wipe away a bit of bright red juice that had dribbled down the little chin.

Misao fell abruptly silent.  Startled, Kenshin looked up.  He and his wife exchanged concerned glances.

 "Is something wrong, Misao-dono?"

 "You don't know, do you?  You haven't gotten word."  Misao sighed.

This time, alarm was in Kaoru's mute glance.  Kenshin quickly ran through the conversation so far; he hadn't been paying that much attention.  "Does it have something to do with Aoshi?"

Misao looked up eagerly.  "Have you heard anything?"

Kenshin shook his head, again meeting Kaoru's gaze.  "We haven't had contact with him in over a year."

Crestfallen, Misao gloomily munched a bite of watermelon.  "He left the Aoiya a couple of months ago.  Not for good," she added hastily, seeing Kenshin and Kaoru both amazed.  "On a... business trip.  He's been to Osaka, Nagoya, and Yokohama, and he was supposed to travel through Tokyo too."

 "You've been following him all this time?"  Kenshin's voice was pure innocence.  Kaoru shook her head in amazement—no matter how she tried, she never could mask her true feelings the way he could—and wordlessly devoted herself to Kenji, who wanted more fruit.

Misao flushed.  "No, I just left Kyoto a week ago.  I came straight here, hoping to head him off."  She shrugged.  "Guess I miscalculated, huh?"

Kaoru glanced at her husband over Kenji's auburn head; with no more than an answering flicker of his eyes, she knew he had noticed it as well.

 "Mou!  I wish I could stay here and chat, but I better get back to my class.  Kids these days—they take any excuse to slack off."  Kaoru clasped Misao's hand apologetically, then handed Kenji over to his father.  "If you're staying in Tokyo for a while, Misao-chan"—she beamed—"you know you're welcome to stay here."

 "Thanks, Kaoru-san."  Misao returned the grin.  "And congratulations on Kenji-chan.  That was a major step he made today."

Kaoru grinned.  "Thanks.  He gets it from his Okaachan, you know."  And with a parting wink, she was heading back to the training hall.

Kenshin watched Misao keenly as he fed Kenji another bite-sized piece of fruit.  She was still cheerful, but something was lacking in her customary perkiness.  Her eyes, as they fell on him and his son, held a deep, guarded sorrow.

On anyone else's face, it would have been unfortunate enough.  But this was Misao, and Kenshin found himself grieving.

 "Actually, Himura," she said quietly before he could speak, "I won't be imposing on you for more than a couple of nights.  I have to keep moving if I want to catch up with Aoshi-sama anytime soon."  She smiled at him.

Kenshin wished, somewhat foolishly, that she would stop smiling—or rather forcing herself to smile; he could not fail to see the emptiness in her eyes, the unhappy sag of her pretty face behind the lifeless curve of her mouth.  But for her sake... he smiled back kindly, patting her hand.

 "If you must, Misao-dono.  But if Kaoru or I can be of any more help, you know you need only ask."

He realized then, as he gazed directly at her, that something had changed, and that he finally knew what it was.

 "Thanks, Himura."  She looked away, and her smile was genuine now, but sad.  "I know."

Makimachi Misao, onmitsu extraordinaire, was learning to keep secrets.

Megumi prepared dinner for herself and Aoshi that evening, gratitude she was determined that he should accept in deed, if not in word.  The tone of her voice must have made this clear to him; he said nothing for long moments, squinting down at her with an amusement that annoyed and then amused her, too, in turn.  Satisfied, she turned and headed for the kitchen.

She could feel his eyes boring into her back.  "I haven't said yes or no yet."

 "Details, details, Aoshi-san."  And she found herself smiling for the first time since leaving Oyakuen.

It was only after he had left, as she was changing into her night yukata, that she remembered the letters she had been given at the hospital earlier that day.  Sitting down at her desk to comb out her hair, she drew out the two papers, now somewhat crumpled after the afternoon's events.

The first was from Orihara Kiku, in inordinately long paragraphs gushing her regrets that Mizuaki-san had decided to cut short the o-miai, and then gushing suggestions of two or three other prospects she already had lined up for Megumi.  Megumi rolled her eyes and tossed the letter aside.

The second was from Oguni-sensei in Tokyo, and Megumi found herself frowning as she scanned the message.  Ships from America arriving... recent fever epidemics in the midwestern States... the possibility of such an epidemic in the busy port of Tokyo... few doctors with real knowledge and experience in Tokyo, fewer still whom he trusted to keep their heads in the midst of a panic: too few to minister to the population.  Could she, would she, spare at least a month to stay in Tokyo in case of an outbreak?

Megumi sat silently for several minutes, softly worrying the edges of the paper with absent-minded fingers.

Then she picked up a pen, pulled out a sheaf of notepaper, and began a letter of request for a leave.  She was overdue for a visit anyway.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  _groan_.  I know, I know, it's not much of a chapter.  I'm sorry.  After this long wait, all the bubbling and simmering in my head has come out to... just this.  ^.^;  On the other hand, all the material that my literary agonizing has somehow produced should lead to fairly frequent updates from now on.  I hope.  ^.^  On another note... gasp, could this actually be plot?! @.@

Some notes:  According to my arbitrary perception of the RK universe, Kenshin calls his son "Kenji-kun" instead of the more age-appropriate "Kenji-chan" because he's still too, y'know, _angsty_ about having his own son and all, and so even now he treats Kenji like the child is his own man (er, you know what I mean).

A bit of information from developmental psychology:  Around 9-11 months, babies usually start building up a vocab of words they understand on hearing.  They generally start talking around 10-12 months.  Nine-month-old Kenji is, yes, statistically exceptional.  Of course!  ^.^

After all those incredibly heartwarming, ego-swelling reviews I got for the last chapter... I am now ashamed of my blatant, shameless review solicitation.  T.T  (tears of repentance)  So, minna-dono, all your apologies are, as Aoshi would say, "misguided."  It is I who should apologize.

I will from now on refrain from bludgeoning readers oh-so-subtly into feeding my pathetic excuse for self-esteem with reviews.  (eyes burning with resolve)  No matter how much those reviews mean to me in continuing with this fic!!  ...Oops, just broke my vow.  =.=

At any rate... as always, deeply grateful for everyone's C&C! ^.^  **Cherie Dee**, thanks so much for those words of... well, I perceive them more as comfort.  Because I was really pretty much unsure of myself particularly while writing the previous chapter, and thus I couldn't rightly say whether I was getting heavyhanded.  So thank you, thank you, thank you. ^.^  Same goes to **ChiisaiLammy**, who again has my gratitude for checking my mistakes ^.^  and **PackLeaderT** and **Shimizu Hitomi**, whom I will always revere for all her own lovely Aoshi/Megumi stories.  **eriesalia**:  ooh, an undercurrent of passion you say?  I like that too!  ^.^  And as for Megumi's feelings... nyarharhar...  **mij**, nightmarish?  Glad of course to have helped; hope everything turned out fine anyway.  And thank you, **conspirator**, and **Maia Serrelinda** so much for the reassuring, thoughtful analysis of Aoshi's character.  **jojobilu**, thanks for reading and reviewing!  I really don't know that much about Japan (scratches head sheepishly), not least because I'm not Japanese at all; I'm sorry if I gave that impression...  But I do seek to make my fics as realistic as possible, in part by doing lots of research on the Net.  So all the Japanese stuff here is true and correct to the best of my knowledge.  ^.^  **Tasya**, yup yup, Aoshi can be a big sweetie ne?  I totally agree with your statement:  I also wonder what's going to happen to them next...  @.@  **Rissi-Sama**:  I read "Hands Courtship" and I'm really happy to know you're thinking of a follow-up story.  What exactly do you want to know?  ^.^  **dumdeedum**, thanks to you too!  I'm doing my best... I hope this will please as it continues to unfold.  ^.^

I have also begun to cut down on my use of "gratuitous Japanese" in my fic/s of late after having happened across this really nasty site "bitchslapping" (their word, not this unworthy one's) anime fanfic for, among other counts, said unjustified use of Japanese.  This is of course a personal judgment, so while I'm agreeing with them on that count for myself, I'm not advocating their views for other writers.  (Does this make me a hypocrite?...)  I enjoy picking up new Nippongo vocab from fanfic as long as there's a glossary, but other readers might not share this thing.  At any rate, I'll be putting in Japanese terms only when necessary.


	10. Signs

**A/Ns.**  Sendai's more prominent traditional crafts include the manufacture of _umoregi-zaiku_, or lacquerware made from fossilized wood (Google up some images, they're _really_ lovely!), and _okashi_, which is usually translated as candy but which isn't necessarily all that sweet.  Most Sendai okashi is made to complement bland/bitter tea, so they're fairly subtly flavored.

Tsurugajou Castle was the palace of the Matsudaira daimyo ruling Aizu before the Restoration.

The Touji temple pagoda is that tall tower Watsuki-sama shows in the manga (and in the anime) to indicate Kyoto.  One of the region's best-known sights.

Why this fic is turning out to be a virtual "Visit Japan! 2004" tourism campaign thinly disguised as RK fanfic, I have absolutely no idea...

glossary:

onsen = hot spring bath-resorts

osenko = incense for religious purposes

-san = (different from "Mr./Ms./Mrs.")  respectful suffix denoting a mountain, e.g. Fuji-san

oniisama = _really_ polite way of addressing an older brother, or in this case, addressing someone as a brother

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Nine:  Signs

Trivial.  Useless.  Unnecessary.  Aoshi held a special abhorrence for anything that could be called these.  They got in the way of the mission, and for the Oniwabanshuu, the mission was absolute.

Long ago, he had found that emotions were a prime example of useless and unnecessary potential hindrances to his work.  So too were idle, irrelevant thoughts that only cluttered the mind and mired the body.  For much of his life, cold rationality had been his weapon of choice; discipline, will, unflinching realism, the armor he had carefully forged against failure.

And so he caught himself shaking his head as he walked along the street, and doubled his pace.  Abruptly he fished out of his buttonhole the wilted rose that teased his senses with its fragile, lingering perfume; for a moment he considered tossing it away into the street, but then stuffed it into an inner pocket of his coat.  He reminded himself sternly of the mission at hand:  Establish contact with several umoregi-zaiku artisans in Sendai before the shops closed, investigate the progress of the harbor expansion project,  and then hold a meeting over dinner with the heads of an okashi cooperative.

For he had been ambling along slowly, in an almost leisurely way, caught up in thoughts utterly irrelevant to his purpose in town, and glancing in shop windows that were clearly not related to either lacquerware or candy.  Now, as he quickened his steps along the sidewalk, he realized in chagrin that he had allowed himself to be distracted by such frivolities on display as jewelry, flowers, intricately brocaded silk kimonos.  He had already spent a full minute loitering in front of a store selling medical supplies, his gaze drawn to expertly crafted instruments with elegant handles of ivory and silver, before he remembered himself and, whirling, walked rapidly away.

As he passed a shady stone path that trailed up into the mountain, he paused, thinking longingly of the temple that awaited at the end.  Lacquerware be damned—he needed to meditate again.  Re-center himself.  Refocus.  Clear his mind.

Because it was just too full of _her_.

It had not helped that they had met again, quite by accident, the previous morning when he had left Aizu.  He had risen early as was his habit and decided to savor the crisp, unhurried air of the still-slumbering town by taking a walk—perhaps pass by Tsurugajou Castle which he had never yet seen, make inquiries in a few onsen in case the Aoiya decided to establish connections in the future.  Acutely aware of the turmoil in the back of his head where he had deliberately shoved it to make way for more orderly thoughts, he had decided to give Megumi's neighborhood a wide berth.

Only when already staring up at the imposing brick building had he realized he had _not_ decided, not consciously at least, to avoid the Sanada hospital.

And there had been Megumi, standing in the grounds by a bed of fragrant summer roses, staring at him in blank surprise.

He had heard it said that if one thought long and hard enough about something, it would come true.

She had inquired frankly about his unexpected appearance; when he asked about hers, she had flushed and turned away with a shrug, saying something about awakening unusually early and deciding to get some paperwork done at her office.  "The groundskeeper here lets me get a few things for my desk every once in a while," she had added, raising a pair of garden shears for him to see.

She informed him of her intent to travel to Tokyo within the next few weeks and asked him if he had anything he wished to give or tell the Himuras.  He had had none, had merely expressed his hopes for her safe journey and pleasant visit.

There had been little to say after that; he had realized this after a few more moments of stilted pleasantries, and been quick to bid farewell.  He had not missed the sudden coolness in her tone, though nothing had changed in her demeanor as she wished him well on the next leg of his journey.  Then he saw the cinnamon gaze waver, dart off to one side as though an idea occurred to her.  Asking him to wait, she had turned toward the flowers as he had watched expectantly.

Her gloved hand had passed over red ones and yellow ones and finally alit on a pale pink feathery one that bobbed merrily by itself, blooming low and close to the ground.  She had seemed quite unaware, as she presented to him the freshly cut flower, that her cheeks were imitating its delicate tint.

"Until I can repay your kindness with something far less humble, Aoshi-san, please accept this with my thanks."

A pale pink rose.  White for innocence and purity, but also secrecy; pink for friendship, respect, gratitude.  Brooding on his horse on the way to Sendai, relishing the silky feel of the petals against his fingers, Aoshi had remembered her hand gliding graceful and sure toward its delicately colored target—not yellow, or joy and happiness; not red...

..._Not Aizu, not anymore.  This is Sendai now.  _He shook his head at himself in irritation and strode decisively past the path to the shrine.  _Lacquerware.  Then candy_.

All else was immaterial.

With a newfound single-mindedness he finished his tasks for the day well before sunset, long legs and great strides bringing him swiftly and unerringly from one location to the next.  As he walked away from the harbor, where expansion was proceeding well under government contract, he realized that he had some idle hours left before his dinner meeting.  Thankfully, he turned his steps toward the temple he had passed earlier.

Summer was noisy as always with birds and insects; they sang and chirped and hummed and buzzed in the lush green all around him, filling what would otherwise have been the silence of an empty street.  Harsh midafternoon sunlight was softened into gray and green shadows dappling the stone walk.  Cherishing his aloneness after the busy day, Aoshi found now no objection to slackening his pace, no frivolity in savoring the wind on his face and the leafy rustle in his ears.

For his day _had_ been busy:  So many new people to meet and names to memorize, so much new information to assimilate, so much meaningless but still necessary politics in which to engage.  While it had been the businessman in him who had talked and taken tea with these new contacts, it had been the cool, efficient onmitsu in him that had been observing, analyzing, judging throughout—the glance of a pair of eyes, the nuances of honorific speech, the slight, telltale gestures and postures that indicated integrity, or the lack of it.

Perhaps he was getting old, he mused sardonically.  In his youth, as part of the Oniwabanshuu whose business it was to know everything and everyone, he had constantly exulted in such expertise, such awareness that often meant the difference between success and failure, life and death.  But for some reason he found now that it tired him more than it thrilled him.

And so, the moment it was no longer necessary for him to associate with these strangers, he was pleased to turn his steps toward silence and solitude.

He reached the temple at last, lit the incense and left his shoes at the entrance, and passed within.  The monks seemed to take no notice of his dark-suited figure padding soundlessly through the corridors.  As he headed for the less public side of the temple that faced the gardens, he drew a slow, deep breath.  The faint, familiar smells of an old, well-tended temple were unique comfort—a gentle mix of osenko and beautifully preserved, centuries-old wood.

When he had newly returned to the Aoiya after the incident at Hiei-san, he had sought shelter in meditation.  He had craved quiet and aloneness away from the bustling Aoiya, where he and his former comrades-turned-enemies had shared a torturous uncertainty in how to treat each other.  He had needed discipline and focus in order to exorcise the demons his dead comrades had become for him.  Guilt, humility, understanding, forgiveness—he had struggled within himself to grasp these amid the din of everyday life in downtown Kyoto, and had found them at last only at the temple that had remained peaceful and still through the turbulence of the ages.

He had thought at first that, once he came to grips with the pain and grace of his past, he would find no more need for meditation.  But then he found himself returning even more frequently to the temple, staying for ever longer hours.  Even when all had stilled again in his soul, he found other people's company increasingly bothersome and sought instead the tranquility of sitting alone with smoothly swept stones spread before him.

Okina had once teased him—during the few, brief times he had lingered at the Aoiya—that he might as well retreat into the mountains and rival Hiko Seijuurou as resident hermit.  The old man, Aoshi observed, tended to pass off deliberate remarks as harmless humor.

Perhaps that was why Okina had seemed both pleased and reluctant when he had first brought to Aoshi the idea of expanding business and the need for finding contacts across the country.

And after the first few weeks of his extensive journey, Aoshi had begun to sympathize with the old man.  

As he was just seating himself on the engawa, a monk quietly arrived, broom in hand.  He appeared barely twenty years old.  Paying no heed to Aoshi, the monk began quietly to sweep the dried leaves that had been scattered across the garden.  The bright sunlight brought out the dove-gray tones in his shabby white robe.

Another reason Aoshi enjoyed staying at temples:  Everyone ignored him.

He had never bothered to count the many, many times people had called him antisocial—whether to his face or behind his back.  It was a judgment he saw no reason to contest.  He felt no pleasure in social intercourse for its own sake; he classified it together with emotions and idle thoughts, and engaged in it only when absolutely necessary for his work.

Even as Okashira, he had actively limited personal contact with his men to the barest need, preferring to lead by example, not by personality.  Thus Misao had been a truly rare exception:  neither a superior nor a subordinate, but one nevertheless who had somehow managed, over the years, to worm herself into some sort of personal relationship with him.

He grimaced—that thought had crept up on him unawares.

It had been precisely because of that uncertain relationship that he had taken it upon himself to leave Kyoto and set about realizing Okina's ambitious ideas.

And it had been while traveling from one city to the next, thinking intermittently of the girl with the bright jade eyes who was undoubtedly now rampaging at the Aoiya about his departure, that he had come at last to understand why he had always avoided people so deliberately, and why—after the madness of the Shishio incident—he had taken to lurking in the stillness and anonymity of the temple to avoid them even more.

People meant responsibilities.  People meant leadership.  People meant dependence.

And he hadn't done a very good job with those who had depended on him, had he?

It was in his time that Edo Castle had been abandoned, the ancient existence of the Oniwabanshuu negated overnight by the very man they sought to serve.  He had been powerless to prevent the dissolution of the legendary onmitsu that had suddenly lost the influence and position they had kept faithfully for centuries.  When the last four of his comrades deigned to accept ignominious death in the name of loyalty, he had then betrayed his few remaining friends by allying himself with evil, solely in order to attain his own petty, misguided goals.

And even when he had at last been officially stripped of his title of Okashira, he had still betrayed the one remaining person who continued to wager her existence on his.

Yet again he felt powerless about this betrayal—not even the strictest discipline and the clearest focus, he knew, could force his heart to respond to hers as she desired.  Leaving Kyoto had been the most he could do to serve her still, to fulfill the responsibility and duty he felt pressing chill upon his heart every time those expressive eyes rested on him, shining with a hope and a trust and a loyalty that were all too painfully familiar.

Perhaps that had been one reason he had found himself drawn to Megumi, however brief their contact had been in his short stay in Aizu.  No doubt because of her own bitter experiences, she, unlike most men and women he had ever known, had expected absolutely nothing from him—neither kindness nor brutality, faithfulness nor duplicity, trust nor hatred.  She had neither avoided him nor forced herself into his company.  In Aizu, he had simply happened to her.  She had simply happened to him.

It had come therefore as an utter surprise, as much to himself as to her, when he had sworn to protect her.

He still remembered the pang of shock that had gone through him even as he had said those words to the woman Mizuaki.  He had never planned such a vow, never considered it—but the idea had passed in an instant from thought to speech accompanied only by an intuitive feeling of rightness.  And Aoshi had learned many years ago to trust his own intuition.

The memory of his words had hung heavy in the taut air between them the rest of that evening: she intent on thanking him with a meal, he sinking into thought, trying in vain to understand his own instincts.  And then, the awkwardness of the next morning's encounter, and the flower now limp and brown inside his pocket.

Megumi, he knew, understood that an offer so freely given could hardly be refused without personal offense.  And so she had chosen instead to express her awareness of the value of his promise and her gratitude in the face of the freedom with which he had made it.

He suspected this was also why she worked so hard at the hospital.  She had avoided seeking the Sanadas' aid as longtime friends of her family when she had first returned to Aizu and attempted to set up her own clinic.  But when Sanada Hiroshi took it upon himself to provide her with work as no other physician in Aizu had done—disdaining her as a woman, if not as a Takani—she had striven to prove herself worthy not of his kindness, but of his respect.

Then again, after her past ordeals, he was not surprised that she asked for and expected so little from others—and thus, when she could not properly reject unsolicited help, valued it so highly and sought to repay it.

The young monk had finished sweeping the garden and now approached Aoshi, who immediately focused on him with some suspicion.  The monk bowed low, smiling apologetically.

"Forgive me for intruding, oniisama," said the monk quietly, still with his self-effacing smile.  "My teacher wished me only to ask you if the kurowashi remains at the Touji pagoda."

Aoshi stiffened.  Kurowashi.  Black eagle.

His old nickname among the Oniwabanshuu outside Kyoto—he had not heard it in years.

A message from Okina?

"The kurowashi has taken flight," he said blandly, glancing up at the cloudless sky as though merely commenting on the weather.  "Does the ao-sagi give chase?"

In those days, Nenji Kashiwazaki had been referred to as the gray heron.  

"Indeed it does."  The young monk produced a much folded paper from his sleeve and laid it before Aoshi, making another deep bow.  "I am honored, Okashira-sama.  My master moved on from this world four years ago, but I have not forgotten his instructions.  Before he wore our robes, you knew him as Amegasa."

"I am sorry to hear of his passing.  He did honor to us all his years of service."  Aoshi returned the bow.  "Thank you..."

"...Tsuki-ren, Okashira-sama."  The monk bowed again modestly.  "It was my duty and my privilege.  Should you need anything else here in Sendai..."

He trailed off as Aoshi shook his head.  Then the young monk nodded, made a last, respectful bow, and left, sandals flapping quietly.

Aoshi was left to himself again, marveling silently at the persistence of old ties, ancient responsibilities, past comrades.

Then he unfolded the letter, which had been folded to fit the capsule on the leg of a pigeon.  The sight and feel of the special paper—exceptionally thin, extraordinarily durable—brought back many memories.

Okina's message was simple.

_Misao has left for Tokyo and is searching for you._

For long moments the letter lay open and unseen in his hands as he stared fixedly off into space.  Then a sigh escaped his lips as it had not done for over two months, and he tucked the letter away.

It seemed his long journey was hardly at its end.

~ tsuzuku ~

**Excessive A/Ns.**  (bowing repeatedly with a big sheepish grin) Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long time it took to update.  I am seriously out of my writing rhythm these days.  @.@

I hope I didn't bore anyone with this super long chapter of almost pure Aoshi-think.  Wahh...  T.T  I've always strived for the "show not tell" method of storytelling, but... it would take pages of yakkety-yak to bring out all of the above, and even more pages of actions (with wayyy too many Ocs)... so I thought this was ultimately the most serviceable way to do a little character investigation.  Now you must tell me whether this worked or flopped miserably.  ^.^;  In the latter case I will rehash, I swear... ^.^

The meaning of the colors of roses vary widely...  But _most_ webpages I came across agreed that pink roses mean gratitude.  _Not necessarily romantic love!!_  I would like to make that point crystal clear.  Hahaha.

_"Before he wore our robes, you knew him as Amegasa."_  Sometimes (I don't know if always... sorry) when a person becomes a Buddhist monk, he gets a new name.  "Tsuki-ren," by the way, means "moon lotus"; an _amegasa_ is a rain hat.  These names had no other significance, I promise.  ^.^

And Aoshi's and Okina's codenames were completely made up.  If someone knows more about accurate historical ninja stuff, please feel free to educate me, for example if this bird codename stuff is pathetically corny and unrealistic or something.  ^.^;  Part of why this chapter took so long (excuses, excuses) is that I really hunted up decent names for them:

The kurowashi, lit. "black eagle," is _Aquila chrysaetos japonica_.  Basically a big meat-eating predatory bird with dark brown/black plumage.  Imagine my glee when I learned that this bird is "very silent," making sounds only occasionally.  Isn't that _so_ Aoshi-sama?  ^.^  The ao-sagi or gray heron is often found in flocks on Kyoto riverbanks.  "Riverbanks" is one meaning of the kanji "kashi" in Okina's real name.  Thank God for kanji software.  ^.^

As for the Oniwabanshuu turning up practically everywhere:  (1)  I'm taking my cue from the Kurokuwa ninja in Kazuo Koike's "Lone Wolf & Cub", who really had agents everywhere in virtually every imaginable occupation, up to and including Buddhist monks.  Let's just be glad this monk isn't assassinating someone, right?  ^.^  and (2) yep, this has "plot device" written all over it in big can't-miss-'em letters...  ^.^

Anyhow, thanks very much, as always, for reading!  And please be so kind as to leave a little note for me... just to let me know you haven't given up on my poor little monogatari for being so slowly updated, ne?  ^.^


	11. Falling in Step

What, no glossary?  Nah... you're smart, you'll figure it out.  ^.^

And while I'm up here:  Thank you, kind people, for the reviews.  They keep me alive.

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Ten:  Falling in Step

Contrary to her earlier expectations, almost a week passed before Megumi was at last able to leave Aizu.  The ubiquitous little allergies and ailments of summer brought a daily deluge of patients, each of whom had to be properly checked, catalogued, and provided with medicine before they could be dismissed.  Excessively frisky children were brought in frequently for sprained joints, broken limbs, bruised heads.  River enthusiasts presented the occasional near drowning; those who came from the mountains suffered from snakebites and poisonous mushrooms.  For Megumi as doctor, this meant hardly a moment's rest during her hours of practice; for her as administrative officer, this meant piles of paperwork that were as necessary to the smooth function of the hospital as they were incredibly dull.

She had to wait, as well, for the herbs and drugs she was stocking for the journey to Tokyo.  Letters from Oguni-sensei arrived nearly everyday, growing ever grimmer with the news that scarlet fever was sweeping Yokohama—perilously close to the capital.  With the prospect of supplies in Tokyo running thin in case of a real epidemic, Megumi was determined to bring her own medicine with her.  Every spare moment was spent drying, grinding, boiling, steeping, straining, bottling, until Ayano complained that Megumi had stopped smelling like a rose garden and begun smelling like a pharmacist's storeroom instead.

At last, all was ready.  The evening before her departure, Megumi retired early to run a bath and go to bed, knowing she would hardly sleep a wink in the cramped, noisy confines of a rumbling carriage.

Into the steaming waters of the furo she sank gratefully, savoring the rich fragrance that hung moist and heavy in the air from the drops of rose oil she had mixed with the water.  A long hot bath at night was one of the few luxuries she permitted herself, and she doubted that she would have the time for it again if a crisis struck Tokyo.

Tokyo.  She smiled to herself.  She had not been to the city in two years; she had been busy building her new life, and she had also wished to avoid that place where so much had happened.  But now she felt only excitement at returning to the dojo, checking on little Kenji's progress, visiting old patients who had since become her friends.  Perhaps there was something to be said for time healing wounds.

Aoshi's revelation might have had something to do with that.  Megumi's smile turned wistful.

The man apparently had the uncanny and often unsettling ability to perceive and report the truth.  She had dismissed whole years of her life as one hellish ordeal after another best forgotten.  But if she dared to believe his words—and she saw no reason for him to lie or even embellish—then perhaps he was right:  If suffering had helped her become stronger, better, more mature, then denying it altogether would mean denying the person she had come to be; and perhaps choosing to forget all of it was a hasty, irrational decision that would ultimately cost her more than she could afford.

_"Before your spirit, that of the Oniwabanshuu Okashira bows."_

She sighed and splashed the water irritably—as though the sudden noise and movement would dispel the memory of his cool, quiet voice, the steady gaze of his eyes, the easy, gentle strength with which he had held her.  But his face remained before her, scant inches from hers as she recalled it to have been.  He had spoken almost reverently to her, and she had drunk it all in thirstily—no one outside her family had ever held her in that way before, or told her so intimately that she was admired, valued, respected; and she had surprised herself on that day with her own aching hunger, realized for the first time in the same moment that it was sated at last.

But it was Shinomori Aoshi who had spoken thus—she had reminded herself then, and reminded herself now.  In any other man, perhaps, she could have imagined that feelings and thoughts went beyond those respectful words, and she might have dared to hope that she would never go hungry again.

But the cold, mirrorlike blue of those unwavering eyes had promised no such future.  It had been this knowledge that had strengthened her then, enabled her to push him away, make some dismissive joke, and offer dinner as calmly as she could, and fill the rest of the evening with idle, irrelevant chatter that made it clear she considered that matter closed.

When they met again the next morning, she had wanted to pay her debts—she had wanted so badly to give him _something_ in exchange for that moment's comfort he had given her, if she had to begin with a mere flower.

Although—barring truly bizarre coincidence—she would likely never see him again.  The man was not the type to contact anyone for contact's sake.  Smiling grimly to herself, Megumi shook her head, determined not to think of him for the rest of the night.  And, if at all possible, the rest of her life.

A loud knock came from the front door.

Frowning in irritation, Megumi sank lower in the water until it tickled her nose.  Perhaps if she didn't respond, whoever it was would just go away.  And if it went away, then it couldn't be too important, could it?

When the knock was not repeated, she smiled to herself in satisfaction and dunked herself fully in the water, finding childish delight in blowing little bubbles to the surface.

"Megumi-san, is everything all right?"

Abruptly she sat up, splashing water everywhere, choking and sputtering—for the water had gone up her nose.  "Damn it, Aoshi!" she shouted, wiping water from her eyes, which were tearing so painfully from the oil in the water that she didn't care that she had addressed him inappropriately.  "Don't _do_ that!"

He was not in the room.  Clenching her fists, she glared at the small window set high in the wall.  She could just picture him leaning against the wall outside, quietly enjoying her discomfort, amusement glinting in his eyes in his otherwise expressionless face the way they did sometimes when he looked at her—

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you.  But there is urgent news, and you were not answering the door."

"I thought you were in Sendai."  Megumi sighed.  So much for the haze of blissful relaxation.  Even the scent of roses in the air seemed cloying now.  She reached for her towel.  "I understand.  I'll be out in a minute.  I'm sure you can let yourself in," she said crisply.

There was no response.  She sighed again and got regretfully out of the still-hot tub, wrapping herself in her towel.  Distantly, she heard the front door slide open and shut.  _And he bothered knocking,_ she thought crossly, raising a hand to her heart that was still pounding—from the shock of it all, of course.  _Damn Shinomori and his stealth_.

"You look pale," she said by way of greeting as she stepped into the common room.  "I'll get you something to eat.  What's wrong?"

He had not taken a seat, instead stood half in the shadows by the door as though impatient to leave.  "You have been in correspondence with that doctor Oguni?"

At his taut, abrupt tone, Megumi stiffened.  "The last I heard was of scarlet fever in Yokohama."

"It is in Tokyo now."  Those calm blue eyes.  "Ten died today."

She said nothing—a look was enough.

"The Kamiya dojo has also been afflicted."

She set down the kettle with suddenly nerveless hands.  "Kenji—"

"—and Himura's wife.  However, that is all I know."  Those imperturbable eyes.  "It is fortunate I decided to stop in Aizu before continuing on.  The carriage waits for us outside." 

Shaking her head dazedly, Megumi gathered her thin yukata about her, feeling suddenly chill.  "If I go tonight, I won't be able to bring much.  But the other medicines will be ready by dawn tomorrow, as I requested."  She glanced at him, suddenly suspicious.  "Aoshi-san, if there _is_ an outbreak, Tokyo should be the last place for you to go."

He glanced away.  Megumi paused, startled.  She had never known him to be evasive—oblique, certainly, but never evasive.

"I have reason to believe Misao is also in Tokyo.  If she visited the dojo as she would no doubt think of doing..."

Megumi turned away.  There was a sudden cold, hollow feeling in her chest, and it confused and irritated her as it compounded the whirl in her head that told her too much was happening a little too fast.

"Scarlet fever is highly contagious, Aoshi-san."

"I had it as a child.  Misao did not."

The certainty, the self-assurance in his cool tones allowed no room for challenge.  Megumi shrugged. 

"I suppose I could pull a few strings to get the medicines released this early."  She drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, tightened her hands into fists, willing the doctor in her to take over.  Though an odd sadness and fear still gripped her heart, already her mind was running through the tasks to be done—clean, sharp, efficient.  "I'll have to scrounge up a carriage for those too, at this ungodly hour.  See to your driver, I'm sure he's famished.  Help yourselves to what's in the cupboard.  And you must make sure your horses can still make the trip—"

She caught herself too late and gritted her teeth, expecting an ice storm of pride to come her way at her unconscious temerity to give him orders—but he merely nodded and slid open the door, and had disappeared outside before she could speak again.

_Of course, of course._  Megumi smiled bitterly at her own idle thoughts.  Of course, he was worried about Misao.  Of course he would tolerate her audacity for now.  Pride, in these circumstances, was inefficient.

Her mouth set resolutely, she went away into the house to change.   

It was nearing midnight by the time the Sanadas' personal coachman arrived at the hospital to bring the carriage of medicines out of Aizu.  From the shadows by the coach he had borrowed from an old friend in Sendai, Aoshi watched Megumi talk with the middle-aged couple, exchanging hugs and smiles of reassurance.  When Sanada Aoi appeared to be asking curiously about Aoshi, Megumi's smile uncurved somewhat.

"He cares for someone in Tokyo very much, obasan.  He's concerned she might also have been affected, that's all."

Why did her strange, cold smile disturb him so?

Then she finished her farewells and came near, and in the dull yellow light of the street lamp Aoshi noted how tired she looked.  She went first to the carriage with the medicines, making sure the crates of precious bottles and jars were secured inside.  Then—was she avoiding him?  ignoring him?—she spoke in friendly fashion with Aoshi's coachman, introducing herself and asking whether he had eaten and drunk.  When she had satisfied herself with his answers, she finally approached Aoshi where he stood waiting at the open doors.

"If you don't wish to stop during the ride, Aoshi-san, you must know where we can change horses along the way."

She raised clear eyes to his; her voice was clipped, professional.  He remembered it well—he had walked her home that night from the ball, and spoken to her of duty.  Of responsibility.

"You need not worry about that detail.  I myself will take over from Sanada's man when he wearies."  

He held out his hand to help her into the coach, but without so much as a glance at him she entered the carriage much more nimbly than he had thought possible in her kimono.  Determinedly he fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Megumi sank with evident pleasure into the butter-soft leather seating.  "And your own coachman?"

"He will last a little longer.  Kobayakawa is used to continuous driving over long distances."

He shut the doors.  Ahead of them, Sanada's coachman Tsujimoto began to drive the medicine coach down the street that led out of town.  Then their own carriage lurched into motion, the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves particularly cacophonous in the hush of the night.

As they gathered speed, lanterns flitting at them and away into the darkness, Megumi drew a deep, slow breath.

At Aoshi's glance, she exhaled and gave a small smile.  "I've never liked being shut up in these compartments."

"Then I will open the windows."

"Thank you."

Nothing more was said for a long while.  Both sat quietly, Megumi with her face and gaze fixed toward the windows, Aoshi choosing to conceal his own features in shadow as he watched her wordlessly.

Perhaps, if things had been different—if _he_ had been different—he would have told her what unspeakable pleasure it was to see her again.

Then her cinnamon eyes were slipping shut, her head moving sharply as she fell asleep and awoke, slept and awoke.  Shifting uncomfortably in her kimono, she glanced at him surreptitiously, as if wondering if he had caught her nodding off.

Those long-lashed eyes opened wide speedily enough, however, when he moved across the compartment to sit beside her.  In the close confines, their bodies easily touched.  Aoshi wondered if the unnatural heat in his face meant that he was blushing, and if she saw it amid the shifting shadows.

"I apologize.  But it would not do to have you tired and sore upon your arrival, Megumi-san."

For a moment she stared up at him searchingly; then she lowered her gaze, smiled that strange, cold smile again, and nodded.  "Of course, Aoshi-san."

And she laid her head on his shoulder so stiffly, so hesitantly, that he thought his old sadness had returned to clench around his heart.  Her long unbound hair was still damp from her earlier bath and flooded his senses with the richness of roses.  Through her yukata he was acutely aware of the warm softness of her body; and when she truly fell asleep, slumping against him with the full weight she had not let him bear while she was still awake, he choked on a sudden memory of pale, perfect skin in smooth planes and curves, glimpsed years ago on one of his more loathsome duties under Takeda Kanryuu.

He steeled himself against the recollection that was both unwelcome and all too welcome.  Sighing, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the seat.  He was tired, that was all.  Rushing around Sendai, reawakening old bonds of loyalty and allegiance, then rattling around in the carriage on a full day's ride with nothing but the flurry of his thoughts and emotions to keep him occupied—even the peace of meditation had been attained only with a special effort. 

As the night deepened and weariness settled on him like a heavy, stifling cloak, he decided to turn off his thoughts at last and rest.  He would be waking in a few hours, after all, to take the reins himself.  With the noise and motion of the fast-traveling carriage, it would be difficult enough to sleep without the constant hubbub in his mind.

As the movements of the coach jounced her body, Megumi muttered to herself in low, incoherent annoyance, settled more cozily against Aoshi's side.  For a moment he froze as she burrowed against him, wrapped her arms around herself and nestled against his wool suit as though the late night chilled her.

Then—firmly ignoring the cold, persistent logic in his head—he placed his arms around her and guided her gently downward until she was lying down along the seat, knees bent awkwardly to fit her long legs into the compartment, her head pillowed on his rolled-up jacket in his lap.  Because she still clutched at her yukata as if she were cold, he draped his old white coat over her, noting distantly that it failed to mask the sensuous curve of her slender body.

And because he had decided firmly to stop thinking for the rest of the night; because her face was shadowed by a faintly unhappy frown even in her sleep; because he who used words so sparingly now could find none to convey his joy at being with her again; because those priests so emphasized living purely in the present moment; because for these few moments he forgot entirely the girl who had sought him in Tokyo, for whose sake he had begun and still continued this long journey—he bent and kissed her.

Only briefly, only enough to stave off the darkest of his hunger—that was what he had planned, dimly; he had intended to merely touch his lips to hers.  But quite unexpectedly she kissed him back, and he stayed, and he wished fleetingly that the present moment would never slide away into the past as it always did; and he felt then that if he was not yet in love with this brilliant woman, he was well on his way.  And then her mouth fell away from his with a quiet sigh that teased his burning lips.

She slept on, almost but not quite smiling, lost now in pleasant dreams.

That was enough.  He fell asleep with the scent of roses all around him.

~ tsuzuku ~

_For once, this chapter, shockingly enough, contains no Author's Notes. Instead there is just the sound of very loud, very gleeful, slightly deranged-sounding sleep-deprived cackling, trailing far off into the wee hours of the night..._


	12. Heartsick

hanagami = a kind of traditional Japanese tissue paper (Tokugawa-era Kleenex, anyone?)

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Eleven:  Heartsick

Gods, she was cold.  She could barely feel her fingers and toes.  Doubled up shivering beneath her two blankets, the slightest movement of air against what little skin she could not cover sent currents of unbearable frost through her body.

And yet she was hot, too—so hot that she hated to blink for the burning behind her eyelids, so hot her own exhalations seemed to sear her flesh.  She moved restlessly underneath her covers, longing to throw them off and relieve the horrid sweaty warmth trapped around her legs, knowing that fresh chills would only swamp her the moment she did.

Her fingers twisted into the sheets for a moment as she struggled to swallow, winced at the shock of pain radiating from her throat as she did.  Then it was a fearful, desperate struggle to breathe again—fighting the viscous fluid that had begun to build up once again, everywhere in her air passages, it seemed; her nostrils flared, her hands curled into fists as she fought for one precious breath after another.  She needed the medicine again—gods only knew how long it had been since that old doctor had given it to her—but first she had to ask for it, if she could only gather the strength to speak.

And then there was that horrid, queasy feeling again, surging unexpected and unwelcome inside her.  She dug her nails into the futon, trying to will away the nausea.  Himura was busy enough with Kaoru-san and Kenji-chan, she was too weak to turn her head to look but he was probably across the room fussing over them.  She'd rather not draw his already overtasked attention to her too, if she could help it, and anyway that was something she had no right to do...

_Aoshi-sama._

Was she dreaming?  Had the fever reached her brain and caused hallucinations?  He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking away from her—so close damn it so close, if she could just reach out and touch him, make him look at her, turn toward her those beautiful eyes, those cold and sorrowful eyes...

Sweat beaded on her temples.  He swam in her vision as she struggled in vain to reach for him.  Misao heard a tiny, helpless whimper and realized belatedly that it had been hers; Aoshi would not look at her.

But of course he wouldn't._  Aoshi-sama... this is all my fault. _She nearly cried out in frustration as her tears only choked her further._ I'm so, so sorry..._

She woke in a terror, flailing wildly as she fought for breath through the sticky, noxious fluid that had pooled again at the back of her throat, almost drowning her.

A cool, soft hand burned and soothed her forehead at the same time.

"Misao-chan.  It's me, Megumi."  Something large and soft was stuffed beneath her head, raising it high.  "Take it easy.  You'll be fine."

"Megu... Megumi-san," she rasped.  The fluid caught at her voice, smothered part of it; but it was less bothersome now that she was half sitting up.

"Save your breath for breathing.  Rest easy now.  I'll take care of you."

Misao nearly sobbed in relief as she felt the familiar cool, rounded rim of a spoon touch her lips.  Shutting hot and weary eyes, she gulped down the medicine eagerly, hardly noticing its black, bitter taste, knowing only that it would soon cause the fluids that so stifled her to recede.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, Misao-chan; I've to see to the others.  But Aoshi-san is here, and he'll watch you while I'm gone."

Despite everything else her body was suffering, her heart leaped at the name.  Misao felt a slight smile painfully curve her cracked lips.  _Aoshi-sama..._

But apprehension and shame were quick to follow the impulse of happiness.  Fighting tears she knew would only impede her breathing further, Misao forced her eyes open to find Aoshi sitting down by her bed, turning shadowed midnight eyes to her.

Such cold, sorrowful eyes.  She remembered them too well.

"A...oshi...sama..."

"Quiet now, Misao."

Involuntarily her eyes fluttered shut as his hand came near.  The light touch of his fingers as he carefully brushed her sweat-damp hair from her face sent thrills through her; she gladly welcomed them after the previous torrents of unnatural cold and heat.

_He's here.  He's here.  He's here!  He'll make everything better..._

He always did.  He was like that, always making sure everything went well no matter what.  Even when other people failed him.  Even when they disobeyed his direct orders...

"I'm... so sorry... Aoshi-sama."

"There will be no talk for now.  Only rest and quiet."

She heard his cold, impassive voice through a haze of weakness and pain, and her Okashira's words silenced her the way the doctor's hadn't.

He was angry with her.  Had she been well enough, she would have trembled with fear.  But now she merely fell meekly silent.

He was angry with her, as she had expected—as she deserved.  But he was also worried.  Healing first, before discipline.  It both consoled her and frightened her.

She longed to reach out and touch him—he was so close, and the feel of his cool skin against her feverish hands would be unutterable comfort.  Fighting the stagnancy in her muscles, hoping against hope, Misao strained to lift her arm toward him.

But he was not even looking at her.

She drifted off into a fitful sleep, seeing before her dark unhappy eyes burning into her aching heart.

The humid summer night was already thick upon the dojo when, bearing a tray laden with bottles and boxes, she entered the sickroom to find Kenshin sponging Kaoru with the warm alkaline solution she had instructed him to use.  For a moment she stood still by the door—watching him, blind to all else, hardly daring to breathe.

This was why she had come.

Not so much Oguni-sensei, not just the need for more doctors or more supplies—it had been the thought of Kenshin that had brought her here, had sustained her through all the bone-jarring hours of a tempestuous ride along uneven roads.

The thought of his dim, heavy eyes, the once clear blue-violet now veiled in worry.

His hands were steady and sure as he slid the wet sponge across her pale skin, his touch gentle as he turned her this way and that, moved her blankets so that she would not be immodestly exposed.  He said nothing as he passed the sponge over her flushed face and neck, brushed away across her pillow the strands of sweat-damp hair.  When Kaoru murmured something plaintive and incoherent, he lowered his head close to hers, whispering a reassurance Megumi could not hear, did not feel she had a right to hear.

Beside him, Kenji slept quietly in his own bed, his shallow, labored breathing evident in the quick rise and fall of his chest and the pained expression twisting his small face.  When Kaoru had quieted again Kenshin turned to his own son, with the calloused hands of a legendary swordsman tenderly sponging the child's thin arms.

She blinked away her mounting tears and strode forward briskly.  This was, after all, what she had come to try to save.

"Aoshi-san—"  She beckoned to the man who sat silently against the wall on the other side of the room, where Misao lay in her own sickbed.  Kenshin also approached at her gesture.  Setting the tray on a desk in a corner of the room, she began picking up the neatly labeled bottles and containers one by one, showing their contents to her silent audience.

So different, yet so alike—gazes ice blue and deep violet settled on her with unerring focus, and she drew a quick, deep breath to steady herself before them.  Though she had had to prove herself before much more critical colleagues many times before, these were two men she respected and, yes, loved too much to allow herself to fail the quiet trust in their eyes.

"The good news is that there's little doubt Misao-chan or Kaoru-chan will recover well and quickly—they're both very strong and healthy adults, they only have the mild form, and they're already quite stable.  Oguni-sensei saw to their preliminary treatment very well, of course.  Every hour they have to take a teaspoonful of this.  You can see that I've labeled it as such.  For their sore throats, make them gargle with this one at least every two hours.  Ken-san, you should keep up the sponge baths: once at sunrise and again at sunset.  Aoshi-san, if you would prefer that I do it with Misao-chan, I really wouldn't mind."

Had circumstances been less grim, she would have laughed out loud at the frown that flickered near-imperceptibly across his face.

"The fever won't abate very soon, I'm afraid.  But if regular care is maintained, there's no reason for them to still be ill by the end of the week."  Quickly she ran through the sequence of the disease that would last over several days:  the start and spread of the skin eruptions, the possibility of aggravation of the throat infection, the eventual fading of the fever and the peeling of the skin.

"In the meantime"—she met their gazes directly—"no one is to enter or leave the grounds; I've already put up a sign outside.  This quarantine may need to remain in place up to two or three months—it all depends on how quickly they heal.  I will have to entrust most of the daily care of these two women to you both, but leave all the other duties to me.  Oguni-sensei has placed me in charge of this dojo for the meantime.  I don't intend to let him or anyone else down."

She wondered, even as the words left her mouth, whether she was trying to comfort them or herself.

"Ken-san, I must tell you now that my chief concern is Kenji-chan."

As Aoshi discreetly retired to his side of the room, Kenshin lifted tortured eyes to her.  It was at moments like these that Megumi was deeply grateful for having become a doctor—and acutely felt the weight of the responsibilities that lay on her shoulders.

_Ken-san, I will not fail you._

"I won't lie to you."  _I _can't_ lie to you._  She wondered, briefly and irrelevantly, if he was remembering now how he had lost his family to cholera so many years ago.  Finding herself suddenly uncomfortable beneath his somber gaze, she moved to where Kenji was starting to fuss in his sleep.  After a long, silent moment rubbing the chilled little body idly, she finally raised her gaze to his.

"It's considerably rare that infants as young as he is should catch this disease.  However, when they do, the prognosis isn't"—she hesitated—"always good.  There's a risk of the infection spreading from his upper air tracts into his lungs, or into his kidneys, or to his heart, or all of these in combination.  We must do everything possible to keep the infection from reaching his heart or—"

His slender frame seemed to crumple before her eyes; as she reached for him without thinking, she felt tears break at last from her tight control, stream hot and heedless down her cheeks.  Kenshin was trembling and stiff in her arms as she held him close—not quite sure who between them needed the solace more, or for whom she was weeping.

After another few moments, she had mastered herself again, and so seemed he; the grim, wild glint in Kenshin's eyes faded back into dull patience, he unclenched his fists.  She dabbed at her tears with a piece of sterilized hanagami from deep within her sleeve, drawing deep, measured breaths to calm herself.

"If we take proper care of Kenji-chan, he should be recovering well in four or five days' time.  I know you will help me attend to him, so I see no reason to fear," she said, trying to smile at him, finding that the endeavor came easier when he appeared to be comforted by her words.

He was single-mindedly attentive as she brought out her jars and bottles, explaining the use and purpose of each herb and chemical, the need for their application, the terrible complications they helped prevent.  She tried to be brief without sacrificing substance, but could not fail to see the great fatigue taut in his face, across his stiffly held shoulders, further dimming his eyes.

Megumi cursed herself for not noticing earlier.  After all, he had been taking care of these three invalids for over twenty-four hours all by himself...

"Take a quarter-hour bath now," she said abruptly.  Kenshin's head snapped up in sudden attention; he had been inspecting with interest the bottles of dried leaves and powdered roots.  Megumi relaxed with an effort, managed a small smile.  "Make it as hot as you can bear," she added, more mildly.  Turning briefly back to her medicine chest, she extended to him a small lacquered box and a small vial of clear, thin liquid.  "Soap up thoroughly with this, and add about a teaspoon of this to the hot water.  They're both antiseptics.  Put your used clothing in the lidded bucket by the door.  And then I must ask you"—she pressed his hand in wordless apology for this further imposition—"to prepare some clear soup for Kaoru-chan and Misao-chan, and something heavy for Aoshi-san.  He hasn't eaten well in too long," with a sidelong glance at the man under discussion, who she did not doubt was hearing her every word quite clearly.

"Nor have you, Megumi-dono."  Kenshin smiled at her gently as he rose to his feet.  "This unworthy one is grateful."

She shook her head slowly, mouthed the words to her reply even though he had already left and would no longer hear.

"No, Kenshin.  _This_ unworthy one is grateful."

Across the room, Misao shifted in her bed.  "M... Megumi-san?"

"Yes, Misao-chan?"  Pausing by Kaoru first to reassure herself that breathing and pulse appeared relatively normal, she made her way to where the girl lay staring up at her, ocean eyes seeming larger than ever in the pallor of her thin face.

"There's something I need to tell you," whispered Misao, clearing her throat with obvious pain.  Megumi, kneeling by her bed and feeling her forehead, saw the blue eyes dart nervously toward the silent man seated on the other side of her futon.

Megumi looked up.  "Aoshi-san, I must ask you to leave..."

"No," she rasped hastily, clutching weakly at Megumi's sleeve.  Though her gaze lingered on Aoshi, she quickly glanced back at Megumi when he turned toward her.  "He should stay.  He should hear this."

"Misao-chan, if this can wait..."  Irritation flashed through Megumi, highlighting her weariness; she bit back the hot words on her tongue.

Misao shook her head feebly.  "Just—just that—"

Her eyes filled suddenly with tears.  Concerned, Megumi helped her sit up to try to ease the congestion that threatened to result.

In the evening hush, Misao's frail whisper seemed to echo through the room.

"When I arrived here first I... I went to the docks to see... about a boat to Sendai.  I wanted to know if"—another surreptitious dart of her fever-bright eyes—"Aoshi-sama had taken such a boat.  There was an American ship docking, they were shouting something from the deck but I couldn't hear, and I pushed closer to find out—and they were unloading these people..."  She shuddered.  Aoshi moved to tuck the blankets more closely around her, but a wild glance from her stilled his hands.  "I didn't understand then—they started clearing us off the pier, putting up these ropes, and I went on to the dojo—but now... now I'm afraid..."

Megumi stared at her, stunned.  Dimly she was aware that Aoshi, too, was looking at the sick girl on the bed, realization dawning sad and hollow in his face.

Misao started to cry.

"I'm so sorry..."

Waves of pain visibly racked her thin body with the effort of emotion; her dry lips parted to bare gritted teeth, agonized gurgles came from her afflicted throat.

"Stop that."  With a gentleness that belied her stern tone despite herself, Megumi wiped away her tears, held a tissue to her nose so she could blow into it.  "There's nothing to be done about it now.  You can't be so sure that you brought it here, anyway, Misao-chan."  It was a good thing forcing smiles was nothing new to her.  "Kaoru-chan had students trooping in and out of here everyday.  It's equally likely that they brought it in.  We'll never know for sure."

Choking back another sob, Misao peered up at her in mute misery.  Then she glanced over fearfully at Aoshi, who had turned his face away.

At the fresh wretchedness that crumpled her small, pretty face, Megumi sighed.  The edges of a slowly gathering anger bit cold into her heart.

"Misao-chan."  She struggled to keep the chill from her even, measured tones.  "You've always hated being called the weasel girl.  Show us the genki spirit you've never lost at even the saddest of moments and get better as soon as you can, all right?"

Chastened, Misao for a moment could only stare at her.  Megumi stared calmly back.

And then a small, tired smile loosened her set mouth, and Misao looked away, visibly relieved and humbled at the same time.

"Hai, Megumi-san."

"Good girl."  Checking another sigh, Megumi stood up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

From his seat Aoshi made neither movement nor sound, but he could sense that Megumi did not leave.  Instead the doctor sagged against the wall outside, let slip a few soundless tears, clenched her fist in a fury he could feel radiating from her in a sudden, silent, explosive surge of ki.

Then she whirled and walked swiftly down the corridor toward the kitchen, where she kept her medicines.

He leaned back against the wall, feeling Misao's apprehensive eyes tracking his every move,  and said nothing.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Sterilized hanagami?  On the one hand, it makes sense to me and I imagine that it was possible, but on the other hand I just think it sounds a bit strange...  ^.^;

What I'm depicting in this story is Scarlatina anginosa, a "medium" form of scarlet fever (midway between a mild form, Scarlatina simplex, and a severe form, Scarlatina  maligna).  I'm approximating turn-of-the-century medical instruments, treatments, and practices as best I can imagine them and support them with Internet research.  (I have to say, researching on something as _horrible_ as scarlet fever is _really_ depressing. =.=  But not half as depressing as writing about it.  With Kenshin's poor little kid, too.  _)  What's interesting is that I found this whole bunch of medical documents on scarlet fever written as far back (so far) as 1898, so I'm reasonably assured that what I've shown so far is on track, at least.

Sorry to let you kind readers down with my lack of originality, but really the idea for scarlet fever came from that handy-dandy mid-19th century novel _Little Women_ by Louisa May Alcott—where Beth, of course, suffers a bout of scarlet fever.  It doesn't specify in the book, but from the descriptions of the symptoms it looks like Beth also suffered Scarlatina anginosa.  (I was going to do cholera instead, but then I found out cholera can kill in as few as 24 hours, and that wasn't going to fit my timeline.  ^.^;  Oh well, literary expediency!)

I haven't found any records of scarlet fever breaking out in Japan.  But my rationale is, Japan opened itself to the world during the Meiji era, and by 1880 ports like Yokohama and Tokyo were busy with foreigners going in and out.  With a temperate climate roughly equivalent to that in some US and European areas where scarlet fever _did_ rampage, it couldn't have been unlikely that such diseases jumped continents and oceans.

_This _unworthy one is very very grateful to all those who reviewed, too!  ^.^  

**eriesalia**-sama:  oooh, sorry, sorry, sorry.  I do like to tease, if and when I can.  A bit surprising (and hypocritical?) since I myself hate being teased in real life.  But hey, I'm sure a little thrill just adds to the flavor of this humble piece, eh? 

**ChiisaiLammy**:  mmm, I do like sensual, myself!  I figured the previous chapter was my last chance for some snooky before the heavy stuff came charging in.  And thank you for the ego-stroking (heh-heh), because I also harbor a special quiet loathing for conventional romance stories.  (Myself I prefer a lot of angsty groveling first... or did you already notice? ^.^;) 

**dumdeedum**:  Glad you like the details!  I'm a very details-oriented person, so it's really affirming that my efforts are appreciated.  This unworthy one writes to serve.

**PackLeaderT**:  thank you! *scratches head*  Actually, I quite enjoyed it myself... ^.^

**mij**:  you sweet person you!  Well, I'm a Psych major fiercely devoted to her course, so I suppose it's only right that I should be so obsessed with humanity.  Nyarhar.

This unworthy author pauses to flap a fan in front of **Shimizu Hitomi** and frantically wave smelling salts under her nose.  Since this does not seem to work, maybe something more compelling... Aoshi's gloves?  A jar of his hair gel??

**Rissi-Sama**:  Really now, I have to admit, that last chapter was tailored specifically for you (and **eriesalia**-sama, who was starting to sound depressed and rather menacing ^.^;).  Glad you liked the kiss—you asked for it, you got it!  ^.^

**nuke-grrl**:  Aha, there's the rub ne?  On the one hand, a kiss.  On the other hand, sleep.  On the one hand, _a kiss!!!_  Heh-heh.  I like the way you think.  ^.^  And thank you so much for your kind praise.  Actually I was rereading the thing (_after_ I'd posted it... as usual) and I did find a few things to nitpick... but (as usual) I'm a bit lazy about revising and reposting... so unless you get on my ass about it, I'm afraid that chapter will have to be that bit _im_perfect, I'm afraid.  Gomen!

**conspirator**:  *blushes*  You are too nice.  I can only hope.  ^.^  (Aoshi:  ...)

**cheryl**:  Ha ha!  "My gulay" ba???  My God, I never dreamed I'd find another person on FFnet who actually shared my habit for saying that silly little all-purpose exclamation.  Omygulay!  Glad you're grinning like hell... I was too!  ^.^

And so, and so.  On to the next!  (whenever I put it up!)


	13. Hope and Despair

matcha = the green tea used in tea ceremonies; though it also comes in milder-tasting variants, it's usually quite full-flavored.  A refreshing kick to the senses, really. 

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Twelve:  Hope and Despair

Misao awoke blearily to the clink of ceramic.

The air closed around her, hot and stagnant.  Weakly she kicked off the blankets that had twisted around her legs.  Rolling over onto her back, she realized dimly that her eyes and skin no longer burned, pain no longer pulsated at her throat, a runny, sticky fluid no longer caught at every breath.  A strange, woodsy aroma drifted to her senses that had only lately been stifled by illness—something like dried mushrooms and earth, making her wrinkle her nose.

Running the tip of her tongue over chapped lips, she cracked sleep-crusted eyes open to find Aoshi kneeling to place a tray of soup and tea by her futon.

She caught her breath in wonder, her cheeks suddenly aflame, and not with sickness.  "Aoshi-sama..."

"So you're awake at last."  He glanced at her through his bangs.  "As expected.  Your fever broke this morning."

He might have been speaking to a stranger.

"Megumi-san has ordered for you complete bed rest and a liquid diet for at least another week."  With a precise, impeccable grace, Aoshi poured a cup of pale green-gold tea.  "Your healing has begun, as has Kaoru-san's.  We decided to move you to a guest room."

For a moment Misao could only stare at him, his cold, distant voice echoing in her mind.

Then she looked away, to hide the tears gathering in her eyes.

"You must finish this," said Aoshi—cool, impersonal, indifferent.  He uncovered the large bowl on the tray to reveal a murky brown soup; the dark outlines of sliced roots, chicken bones, and other, less recognizable objects flickered in and out of sight beneath the surface.  "And the tea as well."

She tried to pick up the bowl, but it slipped in her unsteady grip; she would have dropped it, but Aoshi caught it, his strong, calloused hands firmly covering hers.

Another time, perhaps, under different circumstances, she would have blushed with happiness, been thrilled at this warm, unflinching touch—

—but she removed her hands quickly from beneath his, and her blush was one of shame.

"I—I can feed myself, thank you," she faltered, looking everywhere but at him.  Idly she noticed that it was night, and the dense hum of crickets filled the humid air.  Outside, thick, low clouds blotted out the stars.

"You must not overexert yourself.  You have been in and out of consciousness for over forty-eight hours, and you have been bedridden for far longer."  As calmly as though he had been spoonfeeding invalids all his life, Aoshi picked up a spoon and dipped it delicately into the soup.  Mud-colored liquid swirled insidiously against white ceramic.  "Megumi-san has enough on her hands without one of her patients suffering a relapse."

The subtle, frost-rimed reproof would not have cut quite so deep or stung so painfully without the pang of truth.

Slowly Misao lifted a trembling hand to her heart.  Feeble, fevered recollections of the past few days came rushing back.  Her own bizarre, shapeshifting dreams...  Kaoru's whimpers of pain...  Megumi's quiet tones, hardened by an imperturbable authority, softened by an infinite tenderness...

...and the long, wailing, gurgling cries of an infant in agony.

"Kenji-chan!" she gasped, clutching at Aoshi, forcing him to look at her.

He eyed her coldly.  "He has not done well."

Misao went hot and then cold as the words ran chill through her mind.

His gaze idly averted, Aoshi lifted the spoon to her lips.  But she flinched and shrank away from him.  And when his icy eyes fixed on her once again, she was trembling, the tears burning, coursing down her face.

"Aoshi-sama... I..."

"You have made your apologies."

Her fingers clenched pale-knuckled on the blankets.  If he had shouted at her, if he had hit her or thrown her across the room, she would have understood, would have accepted, would have simply hung her head and taken her punishment—but his voice was utterly controlled as always; it froze her with its sorrow and its dark, seething, finely contained anger.

"There is no more for you to say.  A child lies dying.  In the meantime, you have your orders—finish this food."

Stunned, she let him prize open her mouth with a sure, deliberate strength that would not suffer argument.  As he poured the soup inside, she barely noticed the distinctly unpleasant taste or the heat that scalded her tongue.

She had had her orders once before.  And she had utterly disregarded them.

For long moments, neither spoke.  Only the quiet, measured rhythm of spoon from bowl to mouth and back again, the subdued chime of ceramic on lacquered wood broke the agonized pause.

And then a shrill, plaintive, tiny cry came echoing from the other room.

Hurried footsteps came pounding along the corridor, hushed voices rose in tightly reined alarm.

Misao could bear it no longer.

Aoshi set down the bowl of soup just in time as she flung her arms around his neck and began sobbing against his chest.  Shrill and pleading, desperate, tormented, just like the sobs of an infant in distress.

"I'm sorry!  I'm sorry!  I wish I could die instead of him!  Don't you understand, Aoshi-sama?  I pray to the gods that I'd die instead of him!"

And after a moment of consternation he gathered her close, wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressed her sweat-damp head against his shoulder, felt her bitter tears seep into his shirt.  And far stronger, far purer, far clearer than any anger or contempt surged within him a limitless sorrow, a limitless peace.

He held her, soothed her by rubbing her back softly to and fro as he had so many years ago, when she had been a child and he should have still been one.  He held her until her sobs quieted and she lay limp and trembling in his arms, sniffling miserably. 

No more was said between them for the rest of the evening.  She finished the soup and then the tea without complaint, inhaling the clean fragrance of mint and eucalyptus with obvious pleasure, though her heavy-lidded eyes drooped over the cup he raised to her lips.  She fell easily asleep, curled into a small, remorseful ball under the sheets he tucked securely around her, as he had not done in many years.

Perhaps the bright, fresh smell of the herbal tea had, conversely, refreshed his energy.  Suddenly restless, he found he could not keep still, but instead wandered the silent halls of the dojo, noting idly that the crickets had ceased their chorus at last.  Daybreak was near.  And with it—he glanced out at the cloud-filled sky—what looked to be the first of the summer rains at last.

He remembered then a small wooden box he kept among his things and went to fetch it, stopping by the kitchen to put water on to boil.

Some time later, laden with a tray, he quietly entered the sickroom to find Kaoru protectively cradling a fitful Kenji even in her sleep, and Kenshin sitting dark-eyed and silent beside them both.  A wordless meeting of gazes was enough greeting between the two warriors.  Leaving a steaming cup of matcha by Kenshin's side, Aoshi left, shutting the door behind him with a sibilant rasp of wood on wood.

Megumi was on the engawa, despite the summer evening's warmth clutching a worn gi of Kaoru's around her shoulders.  She glanced up at him as he approached, smiled briefly, wearily before turning back to gaze at the shadowed courtyard.

"Staying the night?"  He sat down beside her and poured two cups of tea.

"So it appears."  She sighed.

"The child seemed to be asleep when I looked in."

"I gave him something for the insomnia.  It isn't always advisable, but he needs to sleep.  I gave him something for the infection in his throat, too, of course.  And for the pain.  And for his fever, and for the congestion, and for the risk of a coma, and of damage to his heart and his lymph nodes and his kidneys..."

Her voice was dull, leaden.  Shutting her eyes, she leaned her head against the post and sighed.

"And how is Misao-chan?"

He paused a moment, startled and then impressed by the doctor that refused to succumb to weariness.  Leaning close to her he placed a full cup of tea in her hands; she glanced at him in surprise, instinctively tightening her hold on the cup before truly focusing on it.  It was part of the obori soma set she had given him in Aizu—a lifetime ago, it seemed.  She gave him a small smile.

"She is recovering, as you said."  He sipped from his own cup.  "She is wretched over her fears of having brought the sickness to the dojo."

Megumi sighed again and did not reply, merely drank her tea.

"And I thought I was the unresponsive one," observed Aoshi.

She blinked and turned around to arch an eyebrow at him.  "Are you actually making a joke, Tsurara-san?"

"No."  Serenely, he took another sip.  It surprised him as much as it apparently did her to feel little reaction to the deliberate name-calling, other than a mild amusement.  "To be precise, a facetious remark.  I apologize for the inappropriateness of my attempt at humor."

She stared at him for another moment, and then broke into a merry peal of laughter.  He closed his eyes and savored the musical, lilting sound as he would the ephemeral note of shakuyaku floating delicately over a mouthful of bitter tea.

Her laugh faded into a chuckle, then ended in a sigh.

"To be honest, when I learned of it—"  She shook her head.  "I was so angry.  I wanted to slap her silly.   If she hadn't already been sick, I might have."  She drew a deep breath of the tea's smoky, bitter scent, as if the anger had arisen again at the mere memory of it, and she needed to calm herself once more.  "It was an accident, of course, a sheer coincidence she can't be faulted for having misunderstood.  And truly, it might have been the students instead—we'll never really know."  She closed her eyes again, bowed her head for a moment over her cup of tea.  "But just the same...  it hasn't been an easy three days for anyone.  I can see how this is torturing Ken-san, especially, minute by minute.  And she makes an easy target for my frustration."

In an odd, breathless moment of sympathy his gaze slowly traced the curve of fatigue across her slumped shoulders.

How long had it been since he had last seen her like this?  Had Takeda only been two years ago?  Her normally fierce, unyielding spirit made that dark time seem much, much farther away.

"You have not slept for over two days."  He berated himself inwardly for not having realized this sooner.

She shrugged.  "It's nothing new.  It gets this way sometimes at the hospital."  She glanced at him out the corner of her cinnamon eyes.  "But the tea helps.  Thank you."  As if to emphasize her point, she sipped her tea, lingering over the steaming cup with a slight smile. 

A thought flashed through his mind, and he permitted it to pass his lips—and he thought then that maybe he _was _getting soft in his old age.

"Sorrow does not become you, Takani Megumi."

Getting soft indeed...  Strangely enough, he found he held no rancor for the idea.

She shot him another look—this time more wary, almost suspicious.  "And where did you get that insight, Aoshi-san?" she asked, her tone dangerously sweet.

He held her gaze evenly.  "I vowed to protect you and your happiness.  It does not seem now"—he let a wry note creep into his words—"as though I am doing a good job, and I never tolerate failure."

After another moment of staring back at him, she looked away with a sigh and drained her cup, keeping its remnant warmth nestled in her palms.  She fidgeted with the gi she held together loosely at her throat.

"Failure..."  Shaking her head, she let out a soft, bitter chuckle.  "If you never tolerate failure, Aoshi-san, and if Kenji"—her voice wavered for a split second before she regained her tight control—"does not live to see the sun this day...  you may consider your oath nullified."

He set aside his own empty cup.  "Do you seriously consider that possibility?"

Her mouth flattened into a grim, set line.  "I'm afraid so."

He said nothing.

"I've treated extremely contagious diseases like scarlet fever before, the kind susceptible to many terrible complications."  Her voice was low and pensive, as though she were speaking only to herself.  "But I must admit that I've never treated a patient as young as Kenji-chan, not by myself.  It's different when you're studying a disease and actually treating it in person.

"I didn't tell Ken-san all of it—he has enough to worry about, and I know he doesn't need the details to understand what it all means.  But everything I've ever learned is tormenting me now.  And what it all points to is—"  She grimaced, her fingers clenched on her teacup. 

"He could die at any minute, Aoshi-san.  Or become disabled for life."

Aoshi thought of Kenshin, keeping wordless vigil over his suffering son.  He wondered if he had really seen the flash of amber in the shadowed depths of his eyes.

It came to all warriors, he knew; it spared no man or woman, no matter how powerful or how strong—at some point or another, one would be challenged by the timeless, matchless force of disease that needed no clean, palpable steel to undo life, one drop of blood, one helpless tear after another.  And the outcome of such an encounter—victory or defeat—lay not always within one's battle-hardened hands.

"You have done everything possible, Megumi-san.  No matter how much we try to convince ourselves, the power over life and death is not always given to us fighters—or healers."

Even he had to look twice to see that Megumi was silently weeping.  Without thinking he reached for her, wanting to take her in his arms—

"Megumi-dono."

A faint, fluttered heartbeat as Megumi's eyes met Kenshin's from the open doorway.  The gi drifted, forgotten, to the floor.

And then she was pushing past him into the room, waking a confused Kaoru as she fell to her knees by Kenji's bed, feeling his forehead, pressing her stethoscope to the little narrow chest, holding her breath, waiting, listening, praying.

Moving to stand in the doorway beside an unreadable Kenshin, Aoshi watched as Megumi silently bowed her head.  Praying for the dead?

Slowly, quietly, she folded away the stethoscope, pressed a brief kiss to the cheek half hidden by unruly auburn hair, and embraced Kaoru, who dared not speak the question they all longed to ask, though her blue eyes already shimmered with grief.

"Tell me, please."  Kenshin's voice was pure gentleness.

Through her soundless tears, Megumi smiled up at him.

"He's perfectly fine."

And perhaps exhaustion had dulled Kenshin's reflexes, but Aoshi was first at her side, catching her as she fainted, frowning, as he did, at the unnatural heat that radiated from her skin.

With a low murmur of thunder, the rain began to fall.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  Okay, kids, our lessons for the day:  "Remnant" is a noun, _not_ an adjective.  And that little thing called "artistic license" is used and abused wayyyy too often.  ^.^;

For the record—I hardly ever feel so satisfied with a chapter as to declare it no longer in need of rereading and rewriting.  But—as in anything, I guess, as best as we can make things out—this unworthy one has done the best she can.  And boy, this horrible chapter sure was a heartache to write.  T.T  Please do forgive me if I hope you kind readers found that this chapter was also a heartache to read—because then I think I shall have managed to meet my objectives for this particular part of the story.

(Har har.  If _I'm_ going to go angsty, and _they're_ going to go angsty... well so will _you_!  Bwahahahahahahaa!)

*sweatdrop*

To give a little bit of myself away:  Some might find the half-half  construction of this chapter strange or downright wrong or ugly.  But I wanted to do some contrasts.  So, did it work? ^.^ 

Along the same lines, it's a singularly frustrating affliction common to writers (I wouldn't dare to say _all_ writers) that we tend to be biased when we evaluate our work.  So if you sharp-eyed readers find anything in here that's OOC or overdone or underdone or not done at all, please do this unworthy one a favor and hit that review button. ^.^

**eriesalia**-sama's input has, as always, been invaluable not only for this particular installment, but for the overall development (past, present, and planned) of this humble story.  Hats off to you!  **akisakura**:  I'm happy you're enjoying it.  This fic practically writes itself, actually.  I'm just the one procrastinating and being neurotic about it.  ^.^;  **ChiisaiLammy**, I hope the interactions in this installment meet your exacting standards as well.  It is an honor to write for readers like you.  Seriously. ^.^  And really, I don't hate Misao... the torture is just a bit of a plot device, I'm sorry to say. ^.~  **Cherie Dee**:  Yep, Megumi is a strong lady, ain't she?  We just love her for it forever!  **Rissi-Sama**:  Sorry, sorry, sorry!  Yes, I know, I'm being a bit cruel here.  But please understand that every bit of pain they're going through, I'm feeling too.  No joke!  @.@  **mij**-sama:  Hmm, did I explain her anger right in this chapter?  I know I'd be plenty peeved too if I were in her position.  ^.^;  Thanks for the Misao characterization critique.  Is she still herself in this one?  I'd hate to just reduce her to a caricature!

As always—my heartfelt thanks, minna-sama.  Please continue to follow this unworthy one's fic.


	14. Day after Day

hashi = Japanese chopsticks (slightly shorter and more rounded than Chinese ones)

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Thirteen:  Day after Day

_Genki!  Genki!  Genki!_

Misao chanted the word inside her head as she vigorously stirred the miso soup, timing each studious refrain with a ladle's circuit of the pot.  Megumi would probably not have approved of her being up and about so soon, and neither, she knew, would have Kenshin; but as both were at the moment themselves dead to the world, sleeping off the fatigue of the past several days, she had seized the chance to put her rapidly returning strength to good use.  And make dinner.

_Genki!  Genki!_

She drew a deep, heartening breath of the cheerfully bubbling soup; she was light-hearted as she had not felt in too long.  Two and a half months?  She grimaced.  How on earth had she managed to survive that long with such gloom?

She felt her old, confident grin settle comfortably back into its long-accustomed place on her face as though happy to be home.  Turning her attention then to the cucumber she needed to peel and grate for a salad, feeling an odd but familiar warmth spark inside her at the thought of the man who had always seemed to particularly like salad—as much as _he_ ever seemed to "particularly like" anything—she knew one reason she was smiling again.

When she had begun to recover, he had all but ordered her to be her old happy-go-lucky self again, had morosely said something about "doctor's orders."  Still feeling guilty about having disobeyed him before, she was now fully determined to be genki if it killed her.

Angling the pot to fill the bowls with soup, she nearly lost her grip on it as its weight suddenly lifted from her hands.

"Himura!  You scared me!" she shouted at him, rapping him over the head with the soup-wet ladle.  Still smiling cheerfully, of course.

Kenshin's eyes were full of soft purple reproach as he steadied the heavy pot for her.  "You are supposed to be resting, Misao-dono."

"And you, Himura-no-baka, were supposed to be sleeping like a log beside your wife and kid."  She stuck out her tongue at him and began dotting her salad with bright jewel-like chunks of mikan, ignoring Kenshin's slightly nervous glance.  All right, so maybe she'd never heard of oranges in a vegetable salad, but it would at least be nutritious, wouldn't it?  It would end up the same jumbled mess in their stomachs anyway.  "I'm covered up fine, not shedding into the rice, if that's what you're worried about."

Mock-defensively she hitched her yukata even higher up her neck, even though it already enveloped her so thoroughly she thought she would melt in the sultry evening air.  The rash-like inflammation characteristic of scarlet fever had been very mild for her, and already it was peeling briskly, aided by a salve of Megumi's making.

Kenshin chuckled, holding up his hands as if to ward off Misao's indignation.  "Maa maa.  Misao-dono happily smiling again is not something this unworthy one will ruin with an argument."

"You know, you're smarter than you look."  And Misao beamed to prove her point.

She had barely had time to notice the sudden tension that hardened Kenshin's features when the door into the kitchen from the yard burst open, and a boyish voice shouted irritably—

"Oei, I thought you guys were sick!  But with the weasel girl cookin', I guess you really _will_ be sick if you weren't already—"

Yahiko's sentence was decisively interrupted by Misao's foot in his face.

"And stay out!!" she shrieked as he sailed over the fence.

"She's right, you know, in a way," frowned Kenshin, picking up the battered, red-faced twelve-year-old from where he had landed most painfully among thorny bushes.  "You should be at the Akabeko where it's safe, Yahiko.  You don't know if you've ever had the fever yet and it's always better to make sure."

"But my place is here at the dojo with everyone!" Yahiko winced as he picked a broken thorn out of his leg.  "I don't want to be over there with all those girls," he mumbled, turning bright pink, and not from the physical abuse.

"Not even with Tsubame-chan?" needled Misao, busying herself over the rest of the meal: dried fish, pickled vegetables, and lightly seasoned mushrooms.

She feigned blithe ignorance of the disgruntled glance Yahiko cast her.  "See, I missed out on all the action," he continued petulantly, as if she had said nothing at all.  "Now Kenji's okay, and even the weasel girl's getting better."  Nimbly he dodged the ladle that hurtled toward him.  "I should've been here helping out, instead of hiding at the restaurant like a coward," he finished more seriously.

Kenshin was smiling at him gently, but Misao could not resist the opportunity to tease him some more.  "Here, you can have some of my shedding then, Mister Coward," she said, flicking an imaginary scrap of desiccated skin his way and hooting with laughter as he scooted aside to duck.

"That's not cowardice!  That's just plain gross!" And Yahiko scrunched up his face in disgust.

"So you sneaked out of the Akabeko, did you?"  Kenshin's tone combined resignation and amusement as he began carefully stacking the trays of food. 

Yahiko flushed with shame.  "Yeah, but I didn't have a choice.  Tae was watching me like a hawk.  I had to sweet-talk Tsubame into letting me escape, but it wasn't easy."

"At this point, if the fever doesn't kill you, Megumi-san will," predicted Misao solemnly, placing some of the stacked trays in the frowning boy's arms.  "I guess it's too late now, but she won't like that you've showed up here all of a sudden."

As they headed into the corridor, Misao stepping lively in front glowing as she contemplated Aoshi's possible reaction to her epicurean innovations, Kenshin brought up the rear with the last of the trays.  Smoothly he drew up alongside Yahiko, who could barely see above the tower of trays he was carrying.

"You're right, Yahiko," he observed, "there is a difference between caution and cowardice."  He fixed a serious gaze on the boy.  "You are exposing yourself needlessly.  You cannot be faulted for not knowing, but Megumi-dono has in fact fallen ill after tending to all of us these last few days.  She'll be fine," he added quickly, seeing Yahiko's eyes widen.  "But for now, her primary concern is herself."

Yahiko grinned.  "Great then.  You'll need an extra pair of hands to help around the house."

As Kenshin's already somber gaze grew even darker, he hastened to add, more quietly, with an earnest glance toward the older man, "I'm sorry for making you worry.  And if I got the disease, then I'd be an even bigger burden, wouldn't I?  But just the same..."

He set his mouth firmly, his chin jutted out with a half-conscious determination.  "It's not right that I should run away or hide when you guys are in danger.  And I thought, at the time, that I'd rather be here in case anything happened to anyone."  If Kenshin noticed the moment's quaver in his voice, he didn't let it show.  "I can't just come back after everything's over and simply find out that there are two or three new graves for me to visit."

Kenshin glanced at him then, gave a strange, solemn little smile.  And Yahiko could not deny himself the pleasure of the approval in the older man's eyes.

"Oi, oi!  What's all this pouty-faced talk about graves?"  Both seasoned warriors sweatdropped under Misao's ferocious glare.  "You two, take those trays to Kaoru-san!  I'll take these to Megumi-san and Aoshi-sama myself," she finished with a syrupy smile.

But as she turned away toward a particular room on the opposite side of the house from the master's, her smile turned softer, more genuine.  "Damned if that shrimp's head isn't a little screwy," she muttered to herself, "but his heart sure is in the right place."

Way over on the other side of the house, Yahiko very nearly upset his trays as he gave a huge sneeze.

As she came to in the soft lamplit hush of evening, Megumi found herself speculating, even as she called his name, how exactly she had known he was there.  Fragmented memories, perhaps, of his arms around her body, of his voice that was always so cold and self-assured, now shot through with an unfamiliar anxiety—or had those simply been dreams as she had faded in and out of reality?  Certainly he made neither movement nor sound to give away his presence in that corner of the room beyond her sight, where the shadows pooled deepest.  But as she drifted slowly back into consciousness, she suddenly knew, with an unassailable certainty she could attach to nothing else—such as the time or even what day it was—that he was waiting patiently, somewhere very close by, for her to awaken.

"Aoshi-san."

Too bone-weary to open her eyes just yet, she felt him kneel by her bed.  "Megumi-san.  You feel better?"

"I suppose so."  She stared up dazedly to find him stooping over her, his face inches from hers.  _Damn gorgeous._  "How long have I been asleep?"

"On and off, more than a day."

"What!"  His hands closed firmly around her arms to support her as she sat up with a jolt.  "Ken-san—Kaoru-chan—"

"Is recovering well."  He met her wild gaze calmly.  "Himura has been following your instructions to the letter regarding the teas and the diet.  His son is also doing fine.  Misao's recovery has been the fastest among them all."

"That's a relief."  Closing her eyes with a sigh, Megumi gently but firmly eased out of Aoshi's grip and lay back down.  "I had a fever?"

"A mild one, which broke early this afternoon.  You had not been eating nearly enough, and hardly got any sleep."

To his openly reproving tone she raised a defiant eyebrow in response.  "Neither have you—attending to Misao-chan."

His gaze remained fixed on her for a moment longer, before he averted it; Megumi felt annoyance at herself mingle with the smug satisfaction of having discomfited him.

"Since she began her convalescence, she has no longer needed such surveillance."

A markedly superfluous statement.  Megumi felt curiosity—and something else she was less willing to name—blossom hot inside her.  "Is that why you are here?"  Why was she asking?  What did she want to know?

Aoshi's eyes lingered on hers before he rose to his feet and walked over to the closed door.  "There is no peace to be had in this unsettled house but here."

As Megumi eyed him sharply, he slid open the door.

Misao stood outside, bearing three stacked trays of food, looking deeply embarrassed.  "Gomen nasai!  You weren't in your room, Aoshi-sama..."

Her blue eyes slid then to Megumi, and the older woman felt the worry and doubt in Misao's clouded gaze clench around her heart.  Suddenly disturbed, Megumi looked away, pretended to busy herself with sitting up in bed. 

"Thank you for bringing it here."  At Aoshi's toneless response, Misao looked back at him uncertainly, making no move to unburden herself of the food.  Aoshi stepped close to her, then, calmly peering first under the lid of one bowl to make sure it contained the medicinal soup, took the other two trays for himself.  "I am sorry, Misao.  The need to make dinner slipped my mind completely.  It won't happen again."

"You should rest, Misao-chan."  Megumi's voice was mild and her gaze held only kindness as it fell on Misao, but beneath the sheets where no one could see, her hands curled into fists with the effort of concealing her disquiet.

The girl's tone was faintly pleading as she spoke to Aoshi.  "I thought I'd take over for now, with Megumi-san.  You've been taking care of her all this time.  You should rest too."

Megumi quickly turned her face away to hide a small, wry smile.

"I'll be fine, Misao.  You, however, are still recovering.  Now I will bring you to join Kaoru-san and the others for the tea Megumi-san prescribed; and for the next several days, beginning now, you are confined entirely to your bed.  Himura and I relieve you of household affairs until things return to normal."

Very few people, Megumi suspected, would dare to disobey direct orders from such an imposing man, spoken in such a masterful tone.  She hid her smile behind her hand as Aoshi shot a suspicious glance her way.

Moving with deliberate slowness, he laid the two trays on the floor by Megumi's bed, then left the room with Misao meekly stepping aside to let him pass.  The clink of lacquerware and ceramic faded gradually with their light footsteps.

He returned just as Megumi was uncovering her bowl of soup, savoring the rich aroma of miso.  "If you're going to help around the house, I might just have more patients on my hands," she said dryly, watching him walk swiftly across the room and sit down by her bed.  He was carrying a folded yukata with a slightly faded deep green pattern.  "Unless you're the one who taught Misao how to cook."

"She makes a good student.  And I have a diverse array of skills."  He held out the yukata toward her.

She stared at him in blank surprise.  "Sewing too?"

"I've never tried."  A smile tugged at his stoically set mouth.  Megumi wondered fearfully if the fever had gone to her head, if she were hallucinating.  "A doctor so well trained should know you could catch a cold if you remain in those sweaty clothes."

Still eyeing his oddly tilted mouth with amazement, she clutched at the proffered yukata.  As she touched the thin, loosely woven fabric she thought instinctively of how delightful it would feel against her skin, instead of the one she had been wearing through her illness until now, hanging heavy, hot, and worn from her body.

The smile had quite gone from his lips as he gazed at her.  She met his stare boldly, without thinking.  "I can't just change, I need to bathe first."

"After dinner then."  Pointedly his eyes flickered down at the tray of food in her lap, then back up to her face.

"Are you offering to wash my back?"  Megumi cocked an eyebrow and a suggestive smile at him, delighting in the frivolous, flirtatious tone she had not used in some time.

He leaned forward, picked up her hashi, and she inwardly cursed herself for not quite yet getting over the fascinating, fluid grace of his every movement.  Midnight eyes and cinnamon met; a delicate morsel of tofu was poised between the chopsticks he raised to her mouth.

"As I said," he murmured, letting the ends of the hashi rest feather-light on her full, slyly curved lips, "I have a diverse array of skills."

She let out a little, musical laugh of sheer amusement, and leaned backward, setting aside the soft cotton yukata.  His hand was warm against her fingertips as she gently forced the hashi back down to her bowl.  "Aoshi-san, I think you have been hanging around me a little too long.  You are starting to pick up my less desirable traits."

He raised his eyebrows blandly.  "Such as that urge to doctor everyone in sight?  Not at all."

He lifted the chopsticks to her mouth again, and this time her brow furrowed slightly as she stared back at him.  "Stubborn idiot.  I can feed myself perfectly well, thank you."

"You are weakened, you would take too long.  Then your bath would be delayed, and with it your change of clean clothing; and in the meantime, you might catch a cold."

Megumi narrowed her eyes at the logic served her in that chill, measured tone.  "I understand; I am not a child, Aoshi-san."

"You most definitely are not, Megumi-san."

At the cool, quiet laughter in his voice, she felt her cheeks heat.  The hashi prodded patiently at her mouth; finally she opened it to accept the silky texture of tofu, feeling a hot, pleasurable thrill glow deep in her gut at the nearness of his face, the intent blue of his eyes on her.  Vaguely embarrassed and irritated by her own reactions, she averted her gaze sullenly.

"I can see that I'm doing this incorrectly.  I can only apologize that it is not Himura who is doing this to you, as you undoubtedly wish."

Playfulness and gravity, innocence and deliberate subtlety—his words brought her up short, and she quickly frowned up at him.  "Ken-san is different.  Ken-san is..."

..._safe._  She bit off the word before it could escape her, could endanger her.

But perhaps this keenly watching man with the crystal clear eyes already knew what she had almost said.

~ tsuzuku ~

**A/N.**  I know FFnet is cracking down on overlong Author's Notes, but please... that habit takes a while to break, y'know?  ^.^

1)   I'm very, very sorry to everyone for the huge lag in updating.  I started my summer practicum just last Wednesday and since then I've been way too exhausted by the end of the day to create just about anything useful.  @.@  Can't help wishing I could just stay in school forever... but that's fairly normal, I hear. ^.^

2)  Just need to apologize also for the, er, crappy chapter titles.  I always think of chapter and story titles last, and rarely do I come up with something less than pathetic.  Though I do try.  @.@ 

3)  Thank you so much for the reviews!  They revive my soul after it's deadened at work.  (No, seriously; I don't like my work this summer. _)  **eriesalia**-sama:  Believe me, I was tempted too.  But then Kenshin would probably go off on another ten-year guilt binge, and sheer angsty madness would only result... so everyone gets well and happy. ^.^;  The fight... is in the works.  Hope with me here. ^.^  **nuke-grrl**:  ooh, please go ahead and nitpick.  I'm terribly afraid of straying off the right path with this fic, so I'd appreciate all C&C. ^.^  Thank you, **Rissi-Sama**!  You are too nice.  Glad I made you smile. ^.~  **conspirator**:  Heh, sorry for all that gloom and doom.  Here's a bit lighter chapter, I hope it makes things a bit more bearable.  **ChiisaiLammy**:  thank you!  "Quiet interactions" require a lot of effort, so I'm happy it isn't wasted or misguided.  **PackLeaderT**:  Again, my thanks.  I like emotions.  Maybe not wisely but too well, actually.  ^.^;  **mij**:  ugh, Misao and Kenshin-brand guilt do not seem to mix very well, but I'm still experimenting.  The "half-half" thing was more of focus:  Misao, then Megumi.  It seems to be the same thing in this current installment too.  Eep...  **Kichi-chan**:  Nice to hear from you again, and thankies!  **Cherie Dee**:  Well, not _too_ sick.  Yes, Aoshi and Misao definitely have to have a little talk. ^.^;  And as for Megumi... hm, I'm not done with her yet.  **jojobilu**:  Oops, sorry about the long wait then.  But any and all reviews are welcomed, so thanks for yours!  **Akisakura**:  You read my mind... I suddenly thought, Uh-oh, gotta bring Yahiko-chan back!  I hope he pleases you in this chapter. ^.^  **Shimizu-Hitomi**-sama:  Oooh... don't worry, the triangle is on its way.  **Tasya**:  My thoughts exactly!  ^.~  **cheryl**:  Gomen, gomen!  Here it is at last!  Share and enjoy!


	15. Fascination

**A/N.** May 2005: Inexplicably, FFnet has mixed up the chapters. This is just a repost.

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**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Fourteen: Fascination_

The motley green scents of various herbs swirled around Misao as she sat down silently beside Kaoru, ignoring the older girl's shocked glance. Then it was musk and wood smoke that filled her senses, in a familiarity that brought tears she tried to hide, as Aoshi knelt down to place the tray of food before her.

"Leave cleanup to me later. We cannot have you suffer a relapse for overexertion."

He rose to his feet with hardly a glance at her, and Misao wondered why, after these years of his cold silences and his colder voice, she still hated it when he acted so distantly toward her.

He took a step toward the door, then paused and laid a hand on her shoulder. She cringed at his touch.

"Your duty now is to recuperate. I trust you will not forget your responsibilities this time, Misao."

His voice caressing her ear, low and soft, sent currents of heat through her, even as the chill of his voice and of his subtle, unmistakable reprimand settled like lead in the pit of her already unsteady stomach. The soft breeze from his quick and soundless closing of the door behind him stirred the fragrance of miso into the steam-heavy air.

Three pairs of eyes fell on her, black and purple and blue unanimous in their sympathy, if varying in their understanding. Refusing to meet their gaze, she fixed her eyes instead on the bowl of soup in front of her. Picking up her spoon, she began to eat, determined to ignore the strange taste of medicinal roots, cursing the cold, heavy feeling in her gut.

She'd be damned now if she didn't finish her food as ordered.

After a moment's hesitation, Yahiko started enthusiastically in on his food. Sounds from Kenshin and Kaoru's direction—as Misao still would not raise her head to look at them—told her they, too, had begun their meal.

Kenji, napping in Kaoru's arms, began to fuss and stir; his mother uncovered the bowl of medicinal tea that was his dose for the day, and the intense, pungent smell of dried ingredients burned in Misao's nose. Kaoru picked up the bowl, murmuring to him soothingly. As if sensing the strong, unpleasant flavors he was about to be fed, Kenji screwed up his face and began to sputter in protest, flailing against his mother's embrace.

"I'm sorry," said Misao quietly, smiling sadly despite herself at Kenji's piteous antics. "It's because of me that he has to drink that stuff."

"Of course it's not because of you." Kaoru frowned good-naturedly at Misao as she deftly silenced Kenji with a spoonful of medicine. "Really, Misao, I thought you'd gotten over that already."

Misao caught Kenshin's smiling glance her way. "There have been worse mistakes, Misao-dono—and graver consequences."

Misao's answering smile was small, but infinitely grateful.

"'Sides, don't you think eating that crap's for the next two weeks is penance enough?" asked Yahiko, with a disgusted glance toward the foul-smelling bowl of murky, mud-colored herbal soup Kenshin had prepared for the invalids of the house, per onna-sensei's orders.

He had a point. Misao stirred the hazy soup with a cautious chopstick, watching with a kind of horrified fascination as the shadowy, jagged hulks of animal bones and plant parts moved sluggishly beneath the surface.

"And Megumi was here to take care of everyone, so all's well that ends well, ne?" And Kaoru smiled at Misao as she swirled a spoon in a pot of honey for Kenji to suck on, to chase away the aftertaste of his medicine.

_Megumi-san..._

Misao looked down at her bowl, glad for the way her bangs fell forward to hide the smile that was slipping.

When she had found Aoshi's room empty, it had occurred to her to check Megumi's—and an instant later had realized how appallingly natural it seemed to look for him there.

He had not left her side since she had taken ill.

And so she had hesitated outside Megumi's door, and in the meantime overheard her own name, in low, feminine, melodic tones; she had been unable to either continue inside or leave, as though paralyzed—by guilt, anxiety, or simple curiosity, she wasn't sure. She had listened to the soft voices within, and then known instinctively that it was something she wasn't meant to ­do.

Not that they had spoken of very personal matters. Aoshi and Megumi said barely four sentences to each other in the short time Misao had stood outside. But Oniwabanshuu hearing was nothing if not keen, and the nuances of breath, of tone, of the tremors of quick thought and carefully restrained emotion brought home to Misao the sudden, unassailable knowledge of intuition.

If at first she had hesitated to enter out of uncertainty, she then hesitated out of dread.

A dread that dissolved swiftly into chill, clammy disappointment when he opened the door and faced her with those mirrorlike eyes, brushed aside her meek apologies, spoken to her with that too-familiar distance in his voice. When, mere moments before, she had heard him clearly through the paper walls between them—speaking with Megumi, his tones had been warm and gentle; patient instead of brusque, pensive, unhurried, almost intimate, instead of coolly detached.

_"There is no peace to be had but here."_

Misao could not remember the last time he had sounded so... sincere... with her.

_Let's face it._ Suppressing a glum sigh, she sipped the milk Megumi had prescribed. _Megumi-san would never recklessly endanger other people the way I did._

Determined not to balk at her medication, she took a spoonful of soup, braving its mysterious stench with unpinched nose. _If she'd been in my place, she probably wouldn't have left the Aoiya at all—she'd probably have just stayed and kept working, the way she did when Himura left the dojo, without saying goodbye._

Crunching deliberately on something that felt like mushroom, she glanced at Kenji, who was burping contentedly in Kaoru's arms. Kaoru caught her eye and smiled.

_My foolishness almost cost an innocent life._

"You want to hold him for a while? Kenshin won't stop hovering until I finish my food." And shooting Kenshin a pointed look, Kaoru held out to Misao a quietly babbling Kenji.

The former rurouni grinned sheepishly, scratching his head. "But, Kaoru, Megumi-dono said—"

"All right already! I'm eating, right?" mumbled Kaoru irritably, before taking a mouthful of bitter soup.

Yahiko rolled his eyes. "Wish you two'd just save it for the bedroom..."

Kaoru flushed a bright red. "You just wait till I get my sword arm back, Yahiko-chan," she growled, glowering at him from over her bowl.

Kenshin sweatdropped and smiled helplessly. "Oro..."

"Shao," stated Kenji in peeved tones, tugging on Misao's braid.

"Yep," agreed Misao, nodding solemnly at him. "Looks like things are getting back to normal around here, all right."

Grinning, Misao turned away slightly, to shield Kenji from the fresh wave of bickering between his mother and adoptive older brother. As the baby stirred restlessly in her arms, she soothingly patted his back, stroking his downy head where it was cushioned against her shoulder.

Briefly her hand lingered on the tiny forehead, and she unconsciously held her breath in apprehension—but his fever was truly gone, and in her relief she held him all the closer.

_Never again._ She pressed a soundless kiss to Kenji's cheek. _Never again, little one. Your Misao-basan won't ever let you down again._

"A lot of unexpected things have certainly happened, Misao-dono." Kenshin's mild voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up to see him smiling at her innocently from over his rice bowl—apparently having given up trying to mediate between the two Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu combatants. "But now that things—as you say—are getting back to normal, this unworthy one hopes you haven't forgotten the reason you were here in the first place, that he does."

Misao sighed, smiled, and said nothing.

And in sheer, utter surprise, Kaoru and Yahiko fell silent.

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Misao dutifully stayed in bed for the next four days, meekly drained every bowl of soup and every cup of medicinal tea that was set before her, even though she longed to get back on her feet and jump-start the blood that had slackened in her veins, and even though by the third afternoon Megumi pronounced her, with obvious satisfaction, well enough to walk around the dojo.

Aoshi rarely said anything to her, except to make what she felt were bland, perfunctory inquiries as to her recovery. She responded as blandly and perfunctorily as she could, but she suspected—from the quick, dismissive movements of his eyes, the stiffness in his voice and body whenever he approached her—that all her true, confused feelings shone in her eyes every time they spoke.

But—as she told herself firmly—Makimachi Misao was nothing if not a quick learner. And sometimes, there was an altogether different darkness in his eyes, a strange tightness in his face when he looked at her, that made her wonder if she had finally become able to mask her real feelings in front of him.

She whiled away the warm, humid, often rainy hours talking with the Himuras and playing with Kenji. When she really did run out of other things to do, she agreed to play shogi with Yahiko, who, on one listless drizzly afternoon, decided to channel his frustration at not being able to visit the Akabeko into a sudden, unholy passion for the game.

"But I thought you hated shogi," Misao had said, puzzled, when he first dragged an old shogi board out of the storage shed onto the engawa and abruptly challenged her to a game.

"Takes too long and makes my head ache just watchin' it," Yahiko had answered promptly, setting out the pieces.

"If you're that bored, you should clean the tatami then. It's summer, after all." And Kaoru looked up from where she was folding paper for Kenji, blue eyes gleaming with a most sinister light.

A growling Yahiko would have gnawed on her head, but then he remembered that she was still recovering, and hastily backed off with a last disgruntled look. "Actually, it was Kenshin who gave me the idea. He mentioned something the other day about how samurai used to play shogi all the time and stuff."

"So?" Misao plunked herself down in front of the shogi board, inspecting the intricately carved wooden pieces with interest.

Yahiko frowned at her as though she were the biggest idiot he'd ever met. "So," he said, so slowly and patiently her fingers burned for her kunai, "I'm going to learn how to play this game, and I'm going to master it"—a note of pride swelled in his voice—"because the descendant of Tokyo samurai should be as good with his wits as with his sword."

"That's not a bad idea, Yahiko." Kenshin padded onto the engawa with a tray of tea. Misao wrinkled her nose at the all too familiar, unpleasant smell wafting from the teapot. "They do say shogi is an excellent way to learn and develop strategy. I'm sure it would help you in your training."

"If nothing else, it'll teach that brat to stay still and shut up," grumbled Kaoru, reaching for a cup.

"Yeah, but no matter how much medicine _you_ drink, you'll never get your face fixed," muttered Yahiko.

"Maybe you could learn shogi too, Misao-dono," said Kenshin loudly, stepping between the two and delicately snatching the cup from Kaoru's hands before she could use it to inflict major damage on her student. "It's be a great way to still your mind and quiet your body. Especially since we'll be quarantined here for another few weeks."

Perhaps he had said it thus on purpose, perhaps not. At any rate, something sparked in Misao's eyes.

And so, as the days wore on in an alternating haze of moist heavy heat and soft gray rain, Yahiko and Misao became a fixture on the engawa with the shogi board between them, the hours inching past in much the same way their pieces did from square to square. They stopped only for meals and rest—and the chores Kaoru refused to let Yahiko escape; otherwise, they played on day after quiet day, and when their enthusiasm seemed in danger of palling, Kenshin took care to introduce some variations that soon had the players glued once again to the board.

Kenji often sat and watched, in the drowsy early afternoons when his mother napped and his father kept vigil at her side. He would watch silently until his eyelids drooped—only to be rudely reawakened by a chorus of self-congratulatory cheers and wild allegations of cheating. Soon, however, even Kenji was sleeping blissfully through the sudden fits of noise that marked the end of each game.

So busy was Misao with her new hobby that she no longer took notice of Aoshi's coming and goings—or at least, rarely made it seem as though she did. As the three convalescents steadily improved, Megumi left the dojo more freely—now to visit another patient's house, then to meet with colleagues in town. Often Aoshi accompanied her on her trips into the city, as it was on the way to the temple; he would then meet her on the way home, and they would arrive together. If Misao paid this fact any particular attention, even Kenshin—who watched her as he quietly did everyone in that little sovereignty—could hardly say.

"You're sure?" asked Megumi, lifting her eyebrows at the former rurouni, one night after dinner when they chanced upon each other on the moonlit engawa. "Shogi is all well and good, but it can't possibly be more interesting than her Aoshi-sama. I don't think the fever reached her head, but I could be mistaken."

At her cool, dry tones, Kenshin smiled. "At any rate, she barely turns her head the few times he's around; and sometimes when he returns from the temple, she seems too engrossed in the game to even greet him."

"You've always been too kind, Ken-san." Megumi pursed her lips in a wry smile. "She's doing her best to ignore the poor man. But you males are notoriously dense"—idly twirling a deep violet iris in her hands, she seemed blithely unaware of Kenshin's hurt glance—"and though Aoshi-san is certainly an... exceptional specimen, I doubt that he is not fooled." A cinnamon gaze flickered toward him. "So how _has_ he been reacting?"

"This unworthy one would think he knows far less of that than you do."

Purple eyes blinked at her innocently from the shadows. Sniffing, Megumi flipped her hair over her shoulder, hoping the sudden movement and the dim light would hide the blood that she knew was heating her cheeks.

"Even if Aoshi-san were to walk with me from sunup to sundown, Ken-san, he would likely only speak a total of ten minutes."

Her tone was light, ironic, faintly bitter. Kenshin said nothing, merely gazed around at the quiet evening that cloaked the dojo in cicada wings and moonbeams.

The shogi board sat alone and unlit in its accustomed corner; Kaoru had finally forbidden Yahiko from playing after dinner, ordering him to practice his kata instead. Without an opponent, Misao reluctantly abandoned the board at night, usually amusing herself by chatting girlishly with Kaoru.

Megumi turned away slightly, curling a tendril of gleaming hair around one slender finger. "Besides," she said more briskly, "I don't bring up personal matters with him. We walk together on the way home only a short distance."

"Indeed." Kenshin, certain his smile was well obscured by the darkness, made a bow. "Well, it's been another long day, Megumi-dono. If you don't mind, I will be going on ahead to bed. Oyasumi nasai."

"Oyasumi, Ken-san," said Megumi affectionately, patting his arm.

She wandered the halls for a little while longer, putting out unnecessary lamps and ensuring that the rest were kept safely. Not without surprise, she found that her footsteps were nearly silent—something she had unconsciously picked up from Aoshi, perhaps? A blind person meeting that man on the road, she suspected, would not hear him approach. Tabi-covered feet noiseless on wood, busy with all sorts of thoughts, she wandered one brightly lit corridor, weary but restless. The iris tucked into her yukata sweetened the heavy-hanging air with its small, wild perfume.

"...You mustn't remember what you came here for in the first place, ne?"

Kaoru's soft, earnest voice, audible through the paper walls in the hush of night, slowed her pace. Megumi turned her head, wondering dazedly if she were being addressed.

"...Of course not. It's just a matter of time now."

Misao sounded unusually subdued.

"It won't be easy, Misao-chan. And—I'm sorry, but... it seems very uncertain to me now. Like it could turn one way or the other."

Megumi frowned at herself, shook her head vigorously. A kitsune she might have been, but she wasn't about to start listening at unsuspecting people's doors. She moved on, but not quickly enough to escape the last scrap of quiet, confiding talk, a last, unmistakable tone of determination and bright, long-lost confidence.

"Looking for Aoshi-sama all this time has taught me never to give up. So I won't. I know now what I'm fighting for—and we Oniwabanshuu never like to lose."

_tsuzuku

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**A/N.** I hope this was fine... . One major reason for this horribly long delay was I kept revising and revising, making more and more notes, writing and deleting and writing again and getting very little sleep, but really getting nowhere fast. Work seems to badly dampen what little writing fire I accumulate in my veins.

Anyway... the rest of my blabbering apologies for the delay may be found, in (only somewhat) condensed form, on my blog... so I'll do you too-kind readers a favor and move on to... the credits! Yayy! . Now that FFnet is allegedly cracking down on kilometric notes, I'll _try_ to keep it short. Ish.

Happy gratitude to the new reviewers—warms my heart every time I'm able to touch other people even through such a "humble" genre as fanfic, so thankyouthankyou to **lark**, **fallen** (I'm so sorry for that false alarm of an Author Alert!), and **XDOC**. Special thanks to **dumdeedum**, who even dropped by my site and signed my benighted guestbook and surprised me very pleasantly indeed. I love Kyris's fic too...has it been updated yet? .

To **Shimizu Hitomi** and **Rissi-Sama** who took the time and bother to review not just once but twice—my particular thanks. . **mij**—Well, you already know how much I struggle with Misao's characterization, so please forgive me for this long delay in updates... **Kichi-chan**—Thanks for cutting me that slack, but be careful, I might just take you at your word. . **eriesalia**-sama, no need to apologize! And again, thank you for that reassurance on my blog. **PackLeaderT**, short but sweet—and very much appreciated, always.


	16. Yume wo Mamoru Senshi

**A/N.** May 2005: Inexplicably, FFnet has mixed up the chapters. This is a repost, with some very hasty editing.

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**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Fifteen: Yume wo Mamoru Senshi_

Dawn settled dank and motionless on the dojo in a shroud of gray as Megumi finished tying on her obi. Shrugging into her smock, she fastened the ties at her shoulders and sat down at her desk to comb her hair and bind it into its customary knot. She had a long day of work ahead of her.

Yawning, fondly imagining a cup of strong, steaming tea in her hands, she slid open the door and stepped out into the corridor.

She stopped dead in her tracks on seeing the familiar, hulking figure sitting ramrod straight and motionless just outside her door, glossy black hair falling across his face.

He appeared to be sleeping—though Megumi had to wave her hand in front of his face several times to convince herself that he was truly unconscious. Even then, she glanced constantly at him as she hovered indecisively around him, torn between waking him up and leaving him be; she half expected to find his eyes fixed upon her again at any moment, in that intense, unnerving way he had of staring people down. She would not be surprised if feigning deep slumber was one of the genius onmitsu's skills.

But Aoshi stayed silent and inert against the wall, his head only slightly bowed and his shoulders only slightly slumped, the rest of his body still as straight and tense as in waking. Megumi caught the near-imperceptible rise and gentle fall of his chest, the momentary swish of his bangs with a silent, restful breath.

She smiled at her own massive sense of relief. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Aoshi was still human, after all.

After another uncertain moment, she went back into her room and soon reappeared. She was careful to step lightly, but he did not move as she knelt beside him, her blanket in her hands. Though he would undoubtedly be stiff and sore upon waking, she would see that he were at least spared the early morning cold.

This close to him, mere inches from the solid warmth of his body, his scent of musk and spicy cedar wood washed over her in heady waves. She steeled herself against the impulse to nestle against his side, immerse herself in the familiar, intriguing smell that was him. She had done quite enough of that, she remembered with a wry smile, not too long ago in the cozy confines of a carriage.

And other things, too, perhaps—if it hadn't all been a dream. Heat rose to her cheeks and she looked studiously away from the sensuous curve of his mouth, focusing instead on shaking out the blanket she had folded on putting away her futon.

As the blanket brushed against his shoulders, a frown fluttered over his brow.

Then a cry escaped her lips as he seized her arm and twisted it swiftly, painfully behind her back, pinning her other hand with the same hand, the other tightening around her throat; and she had a fevered glimpse of hazy blue eyes before she was released so abruptly she lost her balance and stumbled. Staring at him in numb surprise, she would have fallen to the floor, had he not caught her lightning-quick by the shoulder and arm.

"Forgive me." His normally icebound tones were ragged, uneven. Dimly Megumi marveled that she could hear him above the pounding of her heart. "I thought..."

"You were dreaming." Megumi drew a deep, slow, shaky breath to try to quiet herself, to still her trembling hands. But his grasp lingered on her—no longer tight and threatening, but instead careful, solicitous.

"Forgive me," he repeated. His heavy, warm touch seemed to sear her skin through the fabric, cutting through what little focus Megumi could regain; his shadowed gaze upon her had much the same effect. "I was... keeping watch..."

"That's okay." Megumi nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in her smock. "I know you like to keep your promises." 

She tried to smile up at him as if she felt not the slightest bit disturbed, though her face seemed unwilling to follow her instructions; meaning to push him away, she laid a hand on his chest—lightly, fearing another outburst.

But his eyes darkened, and a shadow seemed to fall across his face as he glanced down at her fingers, splayed dangerously close to the deep-tanned skin exposed by his yukata. Feeling new flame surge in her face, Megumi hastily lowered her hand and her gaze, just as a soft, worried voice came calling from around the corner.

"Megumi-san? Are you all right? I heard you cry out—"

And Aoshi's quick step backward came a split second too late as Misao hurried into sight at the end of the hall.

"Oh!" Cheeks below wide ocean eyes turned a deep red, and inanely Megumi wondered which one of them was blushing the harder. Misao quickly turned away, Kenji blinking curious violet eyes over her shoulder at the other two. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—"

"There's nothing to know," interrupted Megumi with a short laugh so obviously counterfeit she cringed inwardly. "Just a little misunderstanding, that's all."

She whirled on her heel, away from Aoshi. Was he blushing too? Or was he looking utterly indifferent, faintly bored, as he usually did? She'd be damned, though, if she were going to look and see for herself. Surreptitiously touching cool strands of hair to her hot cheeks, she walked briskly into her room and caught up her kit of instruments with a jerk of her still-aching arm.

She paused in the doorway, not daring to look at him. He was standing at the edge of the corridor and gazing out at the slowly brightening sky. Misao had disappeared.

"You'd better get some sleep," she said softly. "My professional advice."

Without waiting for a response—were he inclined to give her one at all—she stepped out of the room. She did not see him stoop to pick up the fallen blanket and slowly, thoughtfully fold it, breathing of its faint trace of rose-scented skin.

She saw Misao in the courtyard, rocking Kenji on her arm and playing a bamboo whistle to amuse him. Apprehension went through Megumi as she remembered what she had overheard only the night before.

_"I know now what I'm fighting for, and the Oniwabanshuu never like to lose."_

Carefully Megumi molded her mouth into a pleasant smile as she came near. Misao glanced up at her, smiling hesitantly in return.

"You're up awfully early, aren't you?" asked Megumi mildly, as though meeting her for the first time that day. Placing a light hand on the younger girl's arm, she guided Misao over to a seat on the engawa, as Kenji, frowning in concentration, fumbled to hold the bamboo whistle in his small hands.

"Kenji-chan was trying to wake up his okaachan, but I figured Kaoru-san needed all the sleep she could get. So I took him out for some air. I was awake anyhow." Settling Kenji in her lap, she cuddled him absent-mindedly as Megumi checked her over with her stethoscope.

"You've been watching him all night?" Megumi gave Misao a kind look as she gently felt her throat for any swelling.

"Himura's been hovering, but even he finally conked out about an hour ago—heh, that tickles," she giggled as Megumi prodded around her waist.

"Better a tickle than an ache. Nothing left of your sore throat? Are you putting on that ointment like I told you?"

"Yup! Sometimes all the peeling sort of itches though." And Misao made a face.

"That's normal. It looks like it won't last much longer anyway; you're almost fully healed. Now I expect you to know better than to scratch." Megumi eyed her sternly, and was much gratified by her meek nod.

Her brief examination of Kenji brought a smile to her face—or perhaps it was his clumsy huffing and puffing as he tried in vain to get the whistle to make a sound, even as she felt and prodded his thin body—as she tucked her kit of tools back in her sleeve. "You both are recovering well. But I thought Aoshi-san told you to rest," she added with a raised eyebrow, taking the whistle-preoccupied baby into her arms.

Misao grinned sheepishly, but protested, "I wasn't about to let Kenji-chan wake up Kaoru-san when she and Himura are already so worn out."

"They do need the rest." As Kenji wriggled restlessly in her embrace, Megumi shot Misao a glance. "But so do you, even now."

The girl bit her lip, looking rebellious. "But there wasn't anyone else—Yahiko is still asleep..." She stared out at the sky, leaden gray fading into a watery, indistinct blue. "And I owe it to him," she added, more quietly.

Megumi smiled and said nothing, watching the sky reflect in the deeper blue-green of her companion's eyes. Reparation sought for the most innocent of mistakes was something she could understand. She bent over Kenji, who had apparently forgotten about the frustratingly silent whistle and was now entertaining himself by twining his little fingers into the ties of Megumi's smock.

"I hope you're all right after this morning," said Misao suddenly, her earlier gravity replaced by her usual perkiness. "Aoshi-sama tends to strike first, then think, when he gets woken up from a really deep sleep." She grinned at Megumi. "It's pretty scary the first time, but you get used to it."

Megumi smiled, looked away, wished she had let her hair down so that she could hide her hot face in it. "You know him well, don't you?"

"As well as he lets me."

Her voice was low, her tone pained, but also patient—filled with a quiet, infinite gentleness that startled Megumi and reminded her, not unpleasantly, of Kenshin. She glanced quickly at Misao, but the girl was no longer looking at her; instead she was beaming down at Kenji, who had tired of Megumi's ribbons and now slobbered contentedly on the bushy end of Misao's long braid.

Megumi ran her fingers through Kenji's sparse, silky hair, an act which seemed to delight him no end. "I never did remember to ask, Misao-chan—but is he why you came to be here?"

Faintly pink, staring fixedly down at her lap, Misao nodded. "That's why he was so mad at me," she said with a small, embarrassed laugh. "I was supposed to stay in Kyoto."

Now that was something she hadn't known. Megumi blinked. "He left you behind?"

Misao smiled weakly. "An extended business trip, he said. Okina didn't want me to go either. But I had to. I was just so tired..." Sea-colored eyes pleaded with cinnamon. "...of questions that still had no answers."

Megumi stared back, brow furrowing slightly at the fair face upturned to hers. For a moment she could only muse wryly that Aoshi had said nothing to her of running away from Misao.

"I don't suppose I can blame you," she answered at last. With a wry smile that echoed Misao's, she began to lightly bounce Kenji in her lap, thinking back to a certain roosterhead whom she had not been able to chase, even if she had wanted to. "We all like a little closure in our lives, don't we, Kenji-chan?" And Megumi lifted the baby to beam in his face, eliciting soft, affectionate babble. "I hope you don't _you_ grow up to be as dense as every other man on the face of the planet," she said sternly.

Misao laughed, scooting closer to tickle Kenji breathless. "Or as stubborn."

"Help me make breakfast?" At Misao's ready nod, Megumi stood up, settling a gurgling Kenji securely on her arm. "Forgive me for prying, Misao-chan, but it seems odd to me now that you should be avoiding him when you came all this way precisely to find answers." She glanced at the shorter girl beside her as they made their way to the kitchen.

Misao smiled ruefully. "I have to admit, it didn't hit me just how I'd completely disobeyed his orders until he was glaring in my face. But I think that's fine now," she concluded breezily, picking up the buckets to fill them at the well. "Aoshi-sama doesn't stay mad too long—at least not with me." She gave Megumi a wink before she stepped out.

"I envy your confidence in him," said Megumi dryly when Misao returned, lean muscles flexing in her arms as she set down the brimming buckets.

"I spent the last two years getting to know him. So much effort can't be wasted." Sheepish pride shone in Misao's tones as she sifted rice into a pot. "The problem with Aoshi-sama is that he _still_ thinks he's not worthy. After two years of meditation, he's still stuck on that same old theme!" Frowning, she slammed the pot onto the brazier with more force than necessary.

Megumi wasn't sure whether she found her unconsciously maternal frustration amusing or disturbing. She turned her face away, busying herself over the kettle of water she was setting to boil.

"Not worthy?" she asked lightly, when her voice was back under control.

"Oh, you know, that old self-pitying crap." Her words contrasted sharply with her gentle tones. "He's not worthy—of friendship, of being among other people. Of love." Megumi wondered if she were blushing, but since Misao was stooping to revive the wood fire, she couldn't see. "Okina told me about it once, a long time ago. His guess is that Aoshi still can't get over the fact that he betrayed the Oniwabanshuu. That's why he was always at the temple—trying to get away from all of us.

"For the longest time, I decided to just leave him alone." Straightening as the first flames flickered to life, Misao wiped her arm across her sweat-beaded brow. "But I see now it wasn't quite the right thing to do. You were right, Megumi-san." She smiled at Megumi, apparently oblivious to the smudge of ashes across one cheek. "Guys _are_ hopelessly dense."

Megumi forced herself to concentrate on the fish she was cleaning. "So what do you intend to do now, if I may ask?"

Misao, who was getting out a jar of pickled vegetables, paused. Surprised by her sudden silence, Megumi glanced back at her over her shoulder. Misao's earlier merry smile had softened to a quieter, more private one.

"Convince him." With a sudden effort, she bent her strength upon the jar, breaking the wax seal. "I'm not sure yet just how, but I'll do what I have to—make him open his eyes, when all this time he's been trying so hard not to see what's right there in front of him." Grinning as though the thought gave her fresh comfort, she began placing pickles into small dishes. "Reassure him that this is nothing to run away from, nothing to deny himself of. That he's got nothing to fear."

After a moment, Megumi could smile again. Rinsing her hands of blood and scales, then wiping them on a towel, she walked over to Misao.

"He really does have nothing to fear, if you love him so well," she said quietly.

Misao beamed triumphantly. "See? _You_ get it."

Megumi had to laugh. And Misao laughed with her.

In his room, as the first morning rays spread pale and lackluster across the tatami, Aoshi sneezed. His last thought before he fell asleep was the regretful memory of a thick, well-worn blanket that smelled, very faintly, of summer roses and warm skin.

_tsuzuku_

_

* * *

_

**A/N**. Well, I didn't want to let **eriesalia**-sama of all people down, so here's the promised other installment. Thank goodness for a three-day weekend! tears of happiness

Bottomless gratitude, as ever, to all who so promptly reviewed the last chapter, and so very thoughtfully mentioned their (lost) reviews to the one before, too: **ChiisaiLammy** (you are always so kind to me), **Cherie Dee** (hope your arm is fine!), and **akisakura** (this isn't quite "flirting," is it? But like you, I was starting to miss the old, fun "tension" between these two). **fallen**, I do try to "recognize" people, as you put it, as often as I can...just that FFnet's Eye is upon those with overly blabbery Author's Notes these days, like, um, me. **Kichi-chan**, thanks for the reassurances, I always need them rather badly. My poor little website, which I fear has not been updated in _far too long_, is at www geocities com/lapuente/ **hitomi**-dono, **mij**-dono, did I weasel too obviously out of a wild catfight here? Ack, I'm too much of a coward. Hm, you're right; I forgot about go too. Appreciated the info, anyhow! **Rissi-Sama**, I hope you hang on for a while yet...and uh, why do you call him "Aoshi-one"? Just curious...

P.S. Just for anyone's information—the title literally means "warrior who protects the dream." It's adapted from a line from Misao's character theme, "Ice Blue Eyes".

As always, thank you all so very much for reading. And reviewing. coughhintcough I am grateful!


	17. Fire and Ice

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Sixteen:  Fire and Ice

Megumi was not pleased to see him.  When she entered the clinic's anteroom following her guests out to the door, her sharp eyes fell immediately on him, and a shadow darkened her face for the breathspace of a thought before she looked blithely away, smiling again as she turned back to her visitors.

The swiftness of the change in her, and the ease with which she hid it, fascinated Aoshi.  He had been sitting in the room for the past half hour and had heard her sly, lilting laughter ring out time and again; he had heard her make her characteristically double-sided comments in her devilishly sweet voice, firing both compliments and insults at her young male colleagues with the trademark charm that tended to excite either enchantment or embarrassment—or both—from their kind.  To his keen hearing she had given every appearance of enjoying herself among her little captive audience, relishing the witty replies of one debonair doctor and the flustered stammering of a less self-assured young medical student.

And now she ignored him entirely where he sat in a corner angled away from the sunlit window; instead she continued to chat innocently with her guests.  The only indication that she was at all aware of his presence was a new and near-imperceptible edge to her deliberately musical voice.

It fascinated him, and unsettled him.

Two could play at that game, however.  He said nothing, sitting straight as usual with his eyes shut calmly to the world, until well after the door had slid shut again and the room lapsed into silence.  From outside in the street, he could still hear the young doctors and students strolling off into the fading afternoon.  They were remarking—with varying degrees of admiration and sincerity—on the onna-sensei's charms.

He was itching to cut the throats of the more malicious young idiots when her voice called him back from his bloodthirsty thoughts.  Obviously _she_ had not overheard her guests.

"I apologize for having delayed you.  I'll be ready to leave in a few minutes."

And with a last blur of pink kimono and purple smock, she was gone, padding gracefully down the corridor.

Something stirred uneasily within Aoshi, but he kept his peace until she reappeared in the anteroom, bringing her medicine chest.  He had long since accepted that she absolutely refused to let him carry the chest for her; and so he rose to greet her with only a slight, characteristically silent bow.  She, too, said nothing, her gaze grazing his before drifting calmly away.  Without a word they left the clinic and fell smoothly in step along the street.

They had walked homeward together like this several times over the past week, side by side but hardly looking at each other, small feet in clopping geta keeping good pace with long, soundless strides.  As had become habit on these slow walks that took care to enjoy the afternoon breeze, Aoshi watched her long hair ripple with the wind out the corner of his eye, admired the sunlight that bronzed her pale cheeks.  Though these details hadn't changed over the past several days, something else had—and because he had seldom found it cause for distress with anyone else, it took him a few moments now to realize what it was.

Megumi was not speaking to him.

On days and walks before, she had attempted conversation and had even managed to succeed a few times, eliciting from him responses beyond his usual atonal, monosyllabic ones through playful coyness, honest curiosity, calculated insults, and sometimes all of these at once.  In the same way, he had sometimes answered honestly, and sometimes only out of a perverse impulse to beat her at her own game.  He had found ample reward for his self-indulgence with the flash of her eyes, the quirk of a shapely brow, the sly or annoyed or sincere reply that told him he had struck home.

But now she kept pace beside him with a studious silence that rivaled his own.  Her face was turned away so that he could barely see it, could see only faintly the bright, easy smile that sprang to her face when she greeted a friend or patient along the way—and that just as swiftly left her face when she went on walking with him.

For long minutes he struggled with his surprise and his disquiet—this unfamiliar discomfort at the silence dragging down the air between them.  Certainly with other people—with other girls—he thought nothing of two people being together, but ignoring each other almost entirely.

But with every swift, errant glance toward the woman by his side, smiling and greeting just about everyone save himself, he realized that he had never before wanted quite so badly to say _something_, anything, and earn her response in turn.

But he was used to suppressing ­his feelings and impulses, after all.  Aoshi deliberately glanced away, forced himself to contemplate the elaborate ugliness of an amateurish blend of Western and Japanese architecture that defiled a nearby shop building.  Facing the prospect of twenty more minutes of walk, he could resign himself almost entirely to this cold, leaden silence between them, all the rest of the way.

Almost.

"Takani-sensei's skill must indeed be famed if some of Tokyo's most renowned young physicians stay so long in private conversation with her."

He was reminded, now, of exactly why he could not totally resist the urge to speak with her.  The surprise in her gaze, the quick raising and then furrowing of her brows that needed no words to convey the shift of her emotions—watching her respond from her heart and not her mind, feelings and thoughts flashing across her face too ephemeral to be masked by her characteristic self-possession, filled him with too strange and warm a satisfaction.

"I see the Okashira has been plying his trade once again," said Megumi coolly, dismissing him with a flick of her eyes.

"There was no need to 'ply my trade,' as you call it."  As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a sniff, in fascination he watched the dying sunlight glimmer in the long black locks.  "You certainly took your time traveling all across the richer sections of the city in their company, and while I waited at your clinic its intelligence circuit, if you would call it that, was not that difficult to penetrate."

"If you abhor waiting, I have never had any compunctions about going home by myself."  She stared straight ahead, as though he was beneath her attention.

Had Aoshi been a more ordinary man, he might have seized her by the wrist, twisted her arm, done _something_ to express the abrupt fury that filled him.  But only his voice was different when he spoke again, and only to grow colder and smoother, if that had been at all possible in the first place.

"Unfortunately, I do.  As you yourself said, early this morning—I like to keep my word."

"You needn't worry."  Her tone was flat, dismissive.  "I don't expect anything from you."

Unsure if she meant it as reassurance or offense, Aoshi stared at her, but she kept looking straight ahead, her steps quick and precise on cobblestone.

"There are, however"—she glanced at him for the briefest of moments—"others who do."

The rising wind whipped her hair into fine, writhing tendrils about her face, just barely hiding the sudden spot of color high in her cheek.  Soon, the tension between them momentarily forgotten, Megumi was frowning in frustration, glaring impotently at the breeze that wrought such havoc.  Without a word Aoshi leaned over and slid the medicine chest out of her grasp, into his own.

He met her gaze evenly for a moment before Megumi looked away, saying nothing.  Combing her fingers through restless black strands, she held her long hair in a loose ponytail over her shoulder.  She seemed utterly unaware of his staring at her.

If he ran his own hands through her hair, he thought idly, would it feel like cool water, or like the finest silk?

"You have been speaking with Misao."

"I've been speaking with a lot of people, Aoshi-san," she said breezily.

"So I noticed.  That was, by the way, the original topic of this conversation before you steered it somewhere else entirely."

Her mouth pursed slightly in her telltale sign of annoyance as she looked away, letting go of her hair to cross her arms against her chest.  Smiling inwardly to himself in satisfaction at having at last discomfited the kitsune onna, Aoshi walked on a few more steps before realizing that she was no longer keeping up.  Stopping, he glanced back—straight into narrowed cinnamon eyes.

"What?"

"I find it alarming," she said coolly, brushing past him, "that you should be so callous toward one who has loved you so purely for so long."

"Misao—"  Aoshi felt the smile bubble up from inside him.  Sad and fleeting, it curved his mouth only very faintly, but from the way Megumi's brow furrowed, he knew—too late—that she had seen it and misunderstood.

"So is that how she brings out your hidden smile, Aoshi-san?"  She sounded like a doctor now, like a scientist calmly picking apart a specimen under a glass—distant, clinical, businesslike.  Aoshi sighed.  "You laughing at her?  I can understand how someone as cold and unfeeling as yourself would find her innocence amusing—"

"You are mistaken on three counts, sensei."  Perhaps she knew that he was closely watching her expressive face through the veil of his bangs, noting every flicker of anger, the familiar hardening of her delicate features into stubbornness.  Perhaps she didn't.  "First, that I am amused.  Second, that it is innocence."

She was frowning again as he continued.  "I can only speculate about women's sympathies for one another, but I do know that you are being too generous with her.  At her age, it is no longer innocence but mere immaturity."

Swiftly he caught the slap that came arcing toward his face.

"Exactly how heartless a bastard _are_ you, Aoshi?" spat Megumi, trembling.

He wondered if she too realized that she had dropped the formal title.  Her skin felt soft and warm, her bony wrist frail in his grasp—he could break her arm if he chose to, with just a small burst of effort and a swift movement of his hands; and she would be helpless against his strength, as he had seen her helpless against that of so many others, in years long past.

"Enough to see and reject the blind denial of reality for what it is."  He was no longer really thinking of Misao, he knew; he couldn't, when Megumi was so near.  Instead he was telling her what he had come to discover for himself these few years past, in the still, silent temple—what he had thought through so many times, over and over, that he could recite it in his sleep.  "Enough to accept that there are some things you can do for others, and some things they can only do for themselves."

She understood then—he saw with relief the change of light and shadow in her eyes, across her face.  But she would be stubborn yet, and he was prepared for her.

"She loves you," said Megumi quietly, looking at her feet, "the only way she knows how."

"I love her as well.  I am bound to her, and she to me, so inextricably we can hardly understand it, so inexorably we can never escape it."  Had she flinched, just now?  "Just not in the way she wishes."

He turned away, stepped back to ensure some distance between them before he could no longer control the urge to take her in his arms.  "_That_ is the answer she seeks so thoughtlessly.  _That_ is the reality she refuses to accept, even though she cannot help but know it, deep in her heart."

Megumi smiled at him grimly.  "You were right, at least, about only speculating about women's sympathies.  We do not shut out our feelings as easily as do you men.  You cannot fault her for acting like any ordinary woman in love, Aoshi-san."

"Misao is no ordinary woman, Megumi-san."  He walked on, suddenly wearying of the conversation.  It was one he had played out in his head countless times before.  "She is Oniwabanshuu.  Even she would not deny that.  Except that she forgets"—he smiled humorlessly—"that the essence of ninjutsu is realism, above all else."  He heard beside him the rustle of cotton and silk as Megumi silently caught up with him.  "It's always been one of her greatest challenges, to be realistic."

Her voice was soft.  "She's a child."  Defense?  Simple explanation?  Or perhaps even agreement?

He decided only to say, "Aa."

Evening was gathering around them thick and fast; clouds matted across the moon, casting everything in dull gray shadow.  Aoshi scented rain in the suddenly stagnant air.  They were in the quieter suburban streets now, and the smell of cooking dinner wafted from the warmly lit houses.

"Third?"

He glanced down at her.  "The third point?"

"You did, after all, say I was mistaken on three counts."  She arched an eyebrow.

He shook his head.  "And I thought excessive inquisitiveness was unique to the women of the Aoiya."

"We women are all onmitsu in our own way, Okashira"—her tone danced light over his hearing, mocking him—"living by the knowledge we never cease to gather."

"And spreading it with entirely too much chatter," he muttered.

"Only to make up for stony-faced idiots like yourself who say entirely too little!"

"The third point," he said calmly, "is that I'm cold and unfeeling."

And she quirked an eyebrow his way; her lips lifted in a cool, wry smile.  "You aren't?"

"Not quite as much as I'd like."

They both stopped at the same time, by some instinctive, unspoken agreement, at the gate to the dojo.  From inside they could hear raised voices—Yahiko and Kaoru's—bickering back and forth in the training hall.  A queer, acrid smell from the kitchen meant Kenshin was brewing Megumi's medicines once again.  Misao could be heard singing cheerfully throughout the house, as she shut the windows in preparation for the coming rainstorm.

"You seem to so enjoy toying with your prey, don't you, kitsune onna?" he said quietly to Megumi. As he drew closer to her—his voice was low, she wouldn't hear it if she stayed at that distance, he didn't mean for them to hear it inside; he wanted to feel the warmth of her body, he couldn't resist...

As he drew closer to her, he smelled, very faintly, the scent of summer-blooming roses, fresh and bright through the humidity of the evening.

"You let them think they know you inside out, that they have your affections.  And then you pounce—"

"—or perhaps more accurately, Aoshi-san," she said sweetly, "I abandon them entirely, for more worthwhile pursuits."

His face was so close to hers now, so close, and he knew both of them had fully intended it that way; he could feel her hot breath on his face, teasing his every nerve.  To simply lean in and close the distance between her rosy mouth and his would be too easy. 

"I find it alarming"—he bent slightly to breathe his words in her ear—"that you should be so callous toward those whom you give no choice but to love you."  He smiled when her eyes fluttered shut as though of their own accord, even as her slender hands clenched into fists half-hidden in her billowing sleeves.

"There is always a choice, Aoshi-san, and it's not up to me to give it or not."  Softly, somewhat shakily, she laughed her kitsune laugh.  "It isn't everyday I get to see the Oniwabanshuu Okashira jealous."

_Jealous?_

"I must admit that at last, after two years," he murmured dryly, half to himself, "I begin to admire Misao's perseverance."

_Yes._

"I do not wish to help you break her innocent heart."  Her mood abruptly darkening, Megumi bowed her head, refused to look at him.  "Nor will I settle for only half of yours."

Then her eyes went wide as his hand closed around her arm, grasping firmly but gently through the cloth.

_Because—_

"Then, Megumi, I shall not ask it of you."

_--though there is no need to say it—_

Her lips were soft and hot and moist against his, and he had missed them, missed them as he had her warmth, her playful smile, the solid comfort of her body against his—and his hunger for the taste that was uniquely hers engulfed him in heat, set fire to his blood as he crushed her to him and kissed her.

_—you are mine._

She kissed him eagerly in turn, tongue snaking deftly through his parted lips to sent fresh torrents of flame through him.  His hands could find no rest, it seemed—they angled along her jaw, cupped her chin, tangled in her silky hair, slid down the sensuous curve of her back.  And they tightened instinctively around her shoulders as she suddenly pulled away.

"Dame," she gasped.  As she stepped back awkwardly, turning her face away, her hair flew out in a rich wave of black, smelling of flowers.

He would have followed, but her cold glare brought him up short.

"Men are fit only to be played with."  Contempt rimed her words.  "Take them too seriously and they will destroy you.  Hold on too tightly and they will go."

Over a caustic upward quirk of kiss-swollen mouth, cinnamon eyes glinted mockingly up  at him.

"Isn't that so, Shinomori-san?"

And she left him standing outside the gate lost in thought, his small, grim smile lost to the evening shadows, the faint lingering traces of her perfume misting the air.  From inside, voice echoing pure and sweet, Misao continued to sing.

_tsuzuku _

**A/N.**  About the last chapter—I'm so sorry folks about the blatant K/T parallel.  Funny thing was, it didn't occur to me just how unoriginal the idea was until I was halfway through writing it.  Gah.  But I really couldn't resist—first and foremost, it very conveniently highlighted the fact that Aoshi is a warrior to the core (and I'm sure we all agree it's part of what makes him so sexy!), and second, it was just too...y'know... FUN!

**Trupana**, welcome back!  Congratulations on finishing your finals—it can't have been easy! shudder And your interpretation was actually pretty head on. Applause!

**ChiisaiLammy**, looks like we share the occasional craving for WAFF eh?  Always glad to have company on the way to the, er, dentist!

**eriesalia**-sama, yes, I'm sorry, it _is_ week's end by now, isn't it?  I always hope the wait was worth it though... and I hope you're getting a little more insight into Aoshi now.  (I know I am... bit by bit...!)  Oh, and the chapter title is all your inspiration, by the way.

**Rissi-Sama**, did I get the carriage action here all right? wink 

**nuke-grrl**, you're too kind as always.  Please help me so the flower blooms properly in its own time—sometimes I tend to nip things in the bud.  Really. 

My dearest **mij**—ahh, nothing like Tagalog no? I'm glad my Misao characterization was okay.  And it's comforting to have one less person asking for a catfight, as I'm a pathologically pacifistic (cowardly) person.  Heh.

**akisakura**-dono, hmm, thanks for reminding me about those three.  Where _can_ they have gone...? pats pockets absent-mindedly  About the sisters thing—thank you, thank you.  I have no sisters but plenty of girl friends, so I hope I got the sister-bonding thing right.

**jojobilu**, sorry, this update was delayed again.  Heh.  But I hope this chapter gives you some more insight into Megumi's character.  Sorry, I do love to torture her.  Sigh. 

**Hitomi**-sama, yeah, looks like something's fishy with the forums...but in the meantime, plenty thanks for dropping by! 

**PackLeaderT**—all I can say is (1) Thank You... and (2) It's really the least I can do for such nice readers and great characters. 

**Leila Winters**, welcome to my story!  Fun to hear of the dance—wish I could play those taiko drums too, ha ha!  Hope Aoshi isn't coming off too, hm, pedophiliac in here...

Sorry again for the long notes.  But (ahem) really, the reader-writer interactivity is one thing that makes FFnet so irreplaceable!  Stay tuned for the next installment folks!


	18. Wanting

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Seventeen:  Wanting

Lightning flashed white through the windows and the very floorboards hummed with thunder beneath her feet as Megumi headed along the corridor to the Himuras' bedroom.  She walked past windows rattling with rain to arrive at the door, then excused herself through the papered panes.

At Kenshin's soft response, she slid open the door and entered.

"You should really get some rest," she scolded the red-haired man who sat by his sleeping wife's bed, his finger held fast by Kenji slumbering between them.  Kneeling beside Kenshin, lightening her rebuke with a smile, Megumi began stacking the empty dishes of the night's dosages onto a tray.

"I promise to rest if I feel tired, Megumi-dono.  As it is, I'm fine, and Kenji-kun"—Kenshin glanced down at his son, who was mumbling fitfully in his sleep—"has yet to grow accustomed to rainstorms."

"He is his mother's son, I see."  Fondly Megumi brushed a fingertip across Kenji's cheek.  "Then shall I prepare for you some tea, Ken-san?  I was just about to make some for myself."

Kenshin's smile was serene.  "I would much appreciate that, Megumi-dono.  Thank you."

Megumi pulled Kenji's blanket more snugly up around him and, with a last cheerful nod back at his father, left the room.

It was well past midnight after a long day; she had made house calls all morning, and in the afternoon there had been colleagues to meet and career prospects to discuss.  And, of course, there had been Aoshi—a full day's worth of turbulent emotions and conflicting impulses all by himself.

Nonetheless, a lightness was palpable in all her movements as she briskly set about preparing tea in the kitchen, and Megumi found herself actually humming, despite the howl and crash of the storm all around the dojo.  The feel of Kenji's blanket tingled still in her hands:  It might have been thick and luxuriously soft before, but what must have been years of use had worn it down to a rough, meager fabric that contrasted sharply with the infant's satiny skin.

As she measured tea into the pot, she found herself remembering a fleecy blanket she had seen that morning in a shop.  Of some sort of imported material thick and rich yet light, it cost a sizable sum—but its lovely shade of blue matched Kenji's eyes.

Megumi smiled to herself over the steaming kettle of water.  She could just imagine the glow of pleasure in Kenshin's eyes if he saw his wife exclaiming over such a pretty gift, and Kenji gleefully burying himself in the sumptuous fabric.

_It will be the least that I can do_.  Well pleased with her new idea, Megumi carried the tea tray to the room with a spring in her step.

"You should also be resting, Megumi-dono," said Kenshin mildly as she set down the tray before him.

"I should be, but I haven't been having much better luck than Kenji-chan."

Megumi handed him a full cup.  With keen eyes she watched through her bangs, and saw a surprised smile flit over his face.

"A friend of mine in Aizu makes excellent jasmine tea," she murmured.  It had always been his favorite.

She sipped from her own cup.  Bright and clear and only faintly bitter, the liquid spread quick warmth down her throat and finally pooled in soothing heat in her gut.  Watching Kenshin's evident enjoyment out the corner of her eye, she felt an immense satisfaction fill her, responding to his own.

"Thank you."  Kenshin cradled his cup close to his body, the warmth undoubtedly welcome in the drab weather.

"I'm glad you enjoy it."  She beamed.

They sat together in silence for a while, Megumi kneeling so that she was in the shadows, looking at him over the rim of her fragrant cup.  He went on serenely savoring his tea as though oblivious to her gaze on him.  From time to time he reached out to softly stroke Kenji's auburn hair; it was a gesture that seemed to quiet the child, as the storm continued to rage outside.

Fatherhood had hardly changed him, it seemed, except perhaps to make him even gentler, kinder, more thoughtful than ever.  Though he was in some ways different from the father she herself had known—Takani Ryuusei had been quick to criticize and correct as he had been quick to laugh and praise, while Megumi suspected that softhearted Kenshin would spoil Kenji rotten in no time at all—she had never doubted that he would be good to his children.  It had been one of the things that had endeared him to her.

His unfailing consideration for others, the hard-earned wisdom with which he gave counsel only if asked, the quiet, ready protection for friends and strangers alike—to a friendless, orphaned woman adrift in misery for three years, Kenshin had seemed all but an angel.  And then, of course, almost as soon as Megumi had fallen in love with him had come the realization that he would never fall in love with her.

She could hardly obstruct the happiness of the one who had made all happiness possible for her.  And so she had sent Kaoru to Kyoto, while she stayed behind in the life he had restored to her; she had told Kaoru of her smile that could heal Kenshin where the best of her own efforts could never succeed.  And at their wedding, she had consoled herself with the unmistakable radiance in Kenshin's violet eyes, and tried to distract herself with missing the toriatama instead.

Sanosuke had been an odd combination of similarities and differences when compared to Kenshin.  Brash where Kenshin was deliberate, hotheaded where Kenshin was deadly calm, nonchalantly foulmouthed where Kenshin was painstakingly polite—after the rurouni, Sano made for a strange focus of Megumi's affections.  She had told herself this again and again, when she found herself repeatedly thinking of his voice that was rough yet smooth at the same time, the easy, enviable confidence with which he carried himself, and the way his gruff concern was sparked almost as quickly as his anger.

He had given her no indication that he thought of her the way she did of him.  Oh, there had been those odd moments when she caught him watching her out the corner of her eye, or when he made some boneheaded remark that had no other obvious purpose than to annoy her.  And he had never hesitated to stop by the clinic to have his hand fixed.  She had always wondered then—had let her fingers linger just a few seconds on his rough palm, had searched, for just a few moments longer than absolutely necessary, the handsome face that never could hide anything from anyone.

It was in this very room that she had tended him when Saitou had attacked him at the dojo.  To this day she marveled that she had been able to keep her wits about her that time—all she could recall was the ice that rimed her heart and flowed through her veins when Yahiko had arrived with the news.

In the strangest way, she had felt glad that old Genzai-sensei had been unable to attend to Sanosuke instead.  Peeling away the blood-soaked clothing, cleaning the horrific hole in his shoulder, sewing and bandaging the skin that was surprisingly smooth for such a hardened warrior had brought to life both nightmares and fantasies, and Megumi had been thankful for her privacy as she fought tears through her work.

But he had never done anything, never said anything that she could clutch to her wildly beating heart in the long, aching nights she had spent awake over him.  When Kenshin had been lost to Rakuninmura, Sanosuke had stormed out of town without so much as a last visit; and he had returned only to disappear again soon afterward, seeing only the wide, carefree expanse of the future spread before him, and not the woman he would leave in his past.

She had never quite known whether to thank him or hate him for making the choice for her.

After Kenshin and Sanosuke, not one of Orihara Kiku's spindly-legged, pasty-faced, middle-aged prospects had held the least bit of appeal.

_It's really not their fault,_ mused Megumi, simpering over her tea as she surreptitiously eyed Kenshin through her bangs.  _The competition is ferocious._  She sighed.  _And totally unattainable._

"I hope everything is all right, Megumi-dono."

Looking her way, Kenshin was solicitous, and slightly unnerved by her staring at him.  Megumi chuckled.

"No less than it always is, Ken-san."

She steeled herself, remained calmly smiling as his eyes—suddenly bright and penetrating, no longer quite the harmless rurouni—searched hers.

Then he smiled again, quick, understanding, rueful, and turned back to his wife and child.  Megumi let go of a long, deep breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

_No less than it always is._

And though it was well past midnight, though she was physically and emotionally tired from the day's events, though her bed would be heaven-sent solace against the weather's chill, she found herself lingering over her tea.  She felt a bone-deep gladness for this peaceful silence she was sharing with one she had never stopped loving, one who would never return her love.  There was an odd comfort in something so familiar—this pain that had grown muted with time and custom, like an old wound suffered for so long it had become as intimately part of her as the rest of her body.

Old wounds and all, however, she was not going to let Aoshi inflict a new one.

"I just remembered"—breaking the pause, Kenshin's voice was mild and pleasant as ever—"that time when Aoshi and I had our tea ceremony."

Megumi paused.

"Shortly after that matter with Enishi was settled, was it?"  Hiding her face in the fall of her hair as she felt the peace between them slipping away, Megumi stooped to refill his cup and hers with the last of the tea.

Kenshin thanked her with a nod.  "Yes.  When we left Kyoto after the Shishio affair, he promised that we would drink tea together.  Aoshi is not one to take promises lightly," he added, as though it were an afterthought.

Megumi said nothing, swirled the tea in her cup, and watched brown fragments of leaves turn slowly in the bottom.  In her mind were etched one promise Aoshi had spoken, and one he had not.

_"This woman is under my protection."_

The strength in his arms as he had held her, the absolute certainty that darkened his eyes to midnight blue yet made them crystal clear—in that instant he embraced her, sheltered her, reminded her of her true strength that afternoon at her home, she had felt something all too powerful and all too familiar sweep over her.  Even as she luxuriated in its reassurance, its inherent threat hardened her heart with fear.

"I really wouldn't know," she said with forced calm, flipping her hair to hide her hot cheeks.

"He is still unlearning what it is to be a leader.  A lifetime cannot be undone overnight."  Staring down at Kaoru, Kenshin sounded utterly, innocently serious.  "But as for what it is to be a warrior—that he will never surrender, and his honor to him is worth infinitely more than his life."

Megumi frowned.  "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because he probably never will."  Kenshin was smiling.  "I have yet to fully know him, Megumi-dono, but this at least I understand:  He does not speak with those he respects, because he expects them to comprehend without the hindrance of words.  Nor does he speak with those he does not respect, because he will not waste his time or energy."  He shook his head, still grinning ruefully.  "Aoshi is, when all is said and done, an intelligent man."

 Megumi remained silent.

"He is certainly much more intelligent than this unworthy one."  Chuckling softly, Kenshin stood up, picking up the tray and quelling Megumi's imminent protests with a glance.  "I will take care of these, Megumi-dono, and you can go on to bed."

At the new note of quiet authority in his voice, Megumi hid her impertinent smile until he had left.  Maybe Kenji wouldn't be quite so spoiled after all.

She slipped silently out of the Himuras' room, noting idly that the lightning and thunder had ceased and that the rain had dwindled to a softer, steadier patter.  Though she at first directed her steps toward her room on the other side of the house, she found herself following the corridor in the other direction, determined to make the rounds of the building before she retired.  It was a habit she'd come to have, living alone in Aizu—one last circuit of her little house, checking doors, windows, lamps, before she finally went to bed.

Rounding the corner, she frowned.  One of the partitions screening the engawa from the rain had been moved aside, making an opening about a foot across.  Thinking perhaps Yahiko had forgotten to close it, she strode quickly down the hall toward it.  She gripped the panel that had been moved aside, started to tug it shut, but a fresh, cool breeze came wafting in through the opening and stilled her movements.

Only now, standing a few feet away from where the rain continued to fall, did she realize how stuffy the dojo had become with all the partitions shut.  Drawing a deep breath of cold, rain-heavy air, she stepped out to feel a few stray droplets spatter chill against her face and found herself smiling.

As a woman of her age and status, playing in the rain had been an indulgence left only reluctantly to childhood memories.  And so the smile widened into a grin as she stretched her hand out past the eaves and felt the rain batter her palm in fat, fast drops.

Rivulets of water ran from her hand down along her arm and seeped into the sleeve she sought to hold out of the way.  She laughed out loud at the futility of it all and let her sleeve fall from her grasp; soon it was heavy with rain.  The cold water upon her bare skin was so refreshing that she took another step, farther out from the shelter of the eaves, until she felt the first fine drops touch her face, course down her chin, trickle through her thick, long hair.

She would have to change again and dry her hair before she went to bed, but—for now—Megumi stretched out her arms in the gray emptiness of the courtyard, upturned her face to the blank sky and the rain that seemed to envelop her in aloneness, deadened and shadowed all else.

She was intimately familiar with solitude.  How it freed her to do what she really wanted, whether it was to soak in a tub for hours or to tinker with new concoctions of herbs.  How it kept her from being disturbed while she pored over her texts.  How its comfort and its private delights palled after a while, when the solitude faded inevitably into loneliness.

She had always used to play in the rain with her brothers.

And she realized her kimono was wet through, and so was her hair; the shifting clouds parted for just a moment, and she was shocked at how low the moon had already sunk on the horizon.

She turned back and found Aoshi standing on the engawa, bearing towels in his arms.

After another moment's hesitation, she went inside.  And she said nothing, merely bowed her head and gathered her hair into a sodden handful, while he draped a large towel around her shoulders.

She could not meet his gaze as he guided her, hand low on her back in a force gentle but firm, toward the bathhouse where the tub was full and steaming.

In the doorway, as he made to leave, she spoke quietly.

"I'm sorry, Aoshi-san."

He stopped, but did not face her.

"I never intended for this to happen."

"No, you didn't, Megumi-san."  His tone was dry as he slowly turned toward her.  "Neither did I."

She blinked, then frowned.  She glanced up as he walked back toward her, determined despite his unexpected candor to hold to the resolve that had so hardened her heart earlier that evening.

But before the dark, impenetrable gaze of his blue eyes, all last, confused thoughts of a fresh-faced weasel girl gave way.

"You will catch a cold if you don't bathe and change soon."

Megumi's hands curled into fists, she closed her eyes.  "Why do you care?" she whispered, and she surprised herself with the anger, the frustration, the longing in her tones.

He moved then, and instinctively she tilted her face upward to meet his kiss.

Soft, slow, sweet, the press of his lips against hers spread ripples of warmth throughout her body, burning away the gathering chill of her wet clothes.  His arm came to wrap possessively around her shoulders; she clutched at his hand, twined her fingers tightly with his.

Too soon, too soon, she felt him pull away.  Bereft, yet unable to give voice to her disappointment, she nestled her head in the warm crook under his chin instead; dark with musk, heady with a hint of incense, his familiar scent rushed upon her within the circle of his embrace.

"I made a promise to protect you.  And whether you like it or not"—she might have hit him in the face for the smile in his voice, but she felt strangely helpless in his grasp—"whatever I must do, I shall keep it."

A tear slipped free of Megumi's lashes, crept down her cheek; and a watery bubble of a laugh nearly escaped her, in a wave of relief she hadn't known she'd needed for so long.

_How can he say so little, yet say all the right things?_

And defying the steady gray drone of the rain outside with its richness, the rising steam wreathed them in the fragrance of summer roses.

_tsuzuku_

**Author's Blather.**  Just take the sorriest, sorriest sorry you can possibly imagine, and multiply that about three thousand times, and that's roughly how sorry I am for this atrociously late update...  I only really started writing right after I finished my summer job last Friday, and then everything seemed like garbage, and then I ended up with something pretty different from what I'd planned all along.  My Muse better know what she's doing, 'cause sometimes I don't.  Heh.

But thank you all for the reviews.  Snif.  As **mij** and **eriesalia** noted, yes, there will only be maybe a half dozen chapters to go, though I've some things still in store for these two.  **ChiisaiLammy**—I'm so sorry Megumi-chan came out so heartless in the previous chapter.  Mishandling on my part...sigh.  Going to have to go back and fix that...  But I'm glad you enjoyed the weird romance all the same!  **Kichi-chan**, I hope the finals went (are going?) well.  I also hope I haven't turned you too far into a man-hater...  **Rissi-Sama**, er, thanks for shutting up the evil Rissi.  And basically, just thanks!  **Cherie Dee**, how about we get together for a nice drooling session?  **Shimizu Hitomi**, heh (sweatdrop), really I was scrambling for a way to get him there in the first place.  But well, to protect the one you love, I guess you'd rather be safe than sorry, ne?  **fallen**, I'm happy you're happy with this little fic.  Here's another kiss for swooners like us.  **Seak**, thanks for reading!  Yep, to be rather pathetically honest, that's my favorite scene too.  Nyarhar.  **Leila Winters**, after your review, I did notice just how dark and serious and thoughtful everything turned... I'm trying to bring back that fun tone, but somehow it refuses to be, um, brought back.

Hope with me that the next installments will come at wonderfully close to the speed of light.  Or something.  I have a week and a half till school starts and that tends to bode ill for fanfic writing with me...


	19. Yasashisa no Shouzou

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Eighteen:  Yasashisa no Shouzou

                       A portrait of kindness

Swift, lithe, unthinking, and so graceful that a move that took years to master seemed but effortless, she somersaulted across the hall, hands and bare feet squeaking softly on the well-polished wood.  Her long braid whipped in black arcs behind her.  Landing in a low crouch with barely a thump, she tucked into a neat roll, sliding soundlessly into the shadows off to the side.  Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she had sprung off a post and now came flying toward him, her dusty sole aiming for his jaw as her kiai rent the early morning hush.

Aoshi easily sidestepped her.  As she quickly recovered, stepping off the closed door behind him and whirling for a new attack, approval tugged at a corner of his mouth.  Misao's natural talent was undeniable and she had clearly not allowed her skills to rust, but this was a level of agility he had not seen in her before.

He blocked her next kick, then evaded the lightning swing of her foot that would have turned him upside down had he reacted a split second too late.  Locking her into a hold, he would have wrestled her to the ground, but at the last moment—ocean eyes flashing bright and hard—she slipped out of his grip and seized _him_ with surprising strength, and he found himself pinned to the floor beneath her.  A shock of pain jolted the arm twisted awkwardly around hers.

And Aoshi knew.

With his greater size and weight, it was simple to throw her off.  The momentum of his move she turned into a backward flip; the moment her feet hit the ground, she shifted into a defensive stance.

"Not bad."

Her gaze glinted with a whirl of emotions; but she was still Misao enough for surprise and pleasure to flicker across her face, soften her glare for a fleeting moment.

"That you've learned Omasu's grappling technique through observation and practice alone, without direct supervision from her or anyone else"—he observed with mute satisfaction the blush of pride that tainted her cheeks—"speaks to your determination and ability."

He had another moment to watch the drift of conflicting impulses over her expressive face before her pretty features hardened once again.

"Thank you, Okashira," she said coolly.

Misao had never been that difficult to read, but Aoshi found himself impressed at the new measure of control she seemed to have gained over herself and her reactions—impressed, and strangely saddened.

"As you know, I am no longer your Okashira."  He settled into a defensive stance, mimicking hers.  "But it appears certain other aspects of your training have also gone unattended."

Eyes narrowing, she shifted into an offensive stance; but she hung back, waiting for him to continue.

"It is time we rectified this, then."  He beckoned.  "Attack."

After another moment's hesitation, she came flying toward him in a flurry of lightning-swift motion, her kiai shrill and sharp.  He frowned.

"You lack focus."

Easily he blocked her first kick, then the next, then evaded an awkward knifehand chop.

"You need to concentrate, Misao."

He had to remind himself not to hold back as he slipped into an opening in her guard.  Even then, he had a fevered glimpse of wide jade eyes as she just barely twisted out of the way of a punch.

"You cannot hope to win with such uncertainty."

Tears drifted in her wake as she whirled with a cyclone of a kick, aiming for his neck.  But at the last moment he spun out of the way, and her balance went awry.  Pulled by the force of her attack she would have violently hit the floor headfirst had Aoshi not quickly caught her, breaking her fall seconds before impact.

For a moment she clung to him, shivering, more tears leaking out of eyes squeezed shut.

Then she abruptly wrested free of his grip, perhaps with more effort than truly necessary as he let her go without a word.  She moved to pick up the towel that lay crumpled on the floor off to one side and passed it over her neck and face with hands that still visibly trembled.

He sat silently, waiting for her to speak.  Studiously he averted his gaze from her in her scanty training garb, fixed his eyes on the floor instead of the exposed skin sinking invitingly into shadow where the neckline had come loose, and the long, lean thighs that seemed to negate the existence of her shorts entirely.

While he had left Megumi sleeping soundly in her room, he himself had been oddly restless for thoughts of another young woman, one he had known and loved since her childhood, one who loved him as well—albeit with a different kind of passion.

After all his years of leadership, he should already have become accustomed to having lives thrust into his care, to handling the dreams and hopes of others as his own.  After the countless battles that his icebound heart had won for him, he should have left all fear or doubt behind long ago.  But still he found himself dreading that moment when he would open her eyes to the truth to which she had been blinding herself for so long.

It seemed as though that moment had come at last.

"I'm sorry, Okashira."  Her voice broke the silence, heavy and dull.  "I don't know what came over me."

"Something does seem to have disturbed you."  Slowly, Aoshi drew a deep, silent breath and let it out.

Misao gave a strange little smile.  "It's very frustrating to keep trying and trying and get absolutely nothing for my efforts."

Involuntarily his eyes fluttered shut at the raw, open pain in her soft voice.  But his own tones, when he spoke, gave away nothing of his disquiet.

"Sometimes our attempts at achievement only push it farther away."

She made no answer.  He hardly needed one, but—both impressed and puzzled by her uncharacteristic reserve—he turned to look at her.  Sweat-damp bangs obscured her eyes as she smiled sadly down at the towel she was twisting around her fingers.

"I hardly expected you to be willing to talk about this."

_As I have been willing to talk about little else._  Aoshi nodded, accepted the silent reproach she had not dared to make.

He rose to his feet and walked over to part the double doors at the end of the hall.  He drew a deep breath, grateful for the cool air that wafted into the stuffy hall.  It had rained through the night, and now looked to rain throughout the breaking day as well.

He remembered the woman who had come in from the same rain only hours before.  Megumi had wanted no part of Misao's heartbreak.  But what the intelligent kitsune onna had not known—could hardly have known—was that he, too, wished the same thing.

He had left Kyoto on that very hope—that in his absence she would find the answers she so desperately sought; that without need for harsh words or harsher acts, she would come into a deeper, clearer understanding of her own.  In the intuitive sympathy between two men loving the same woman, Okina had sensed this and let him go.  But then she had disobeyed the old man, disobeyed Aoshi, and so he realized she had still left this lesson in his care.

Now that his responsibility was clear, he would avoid it no longer.

"I said it was time we rectified the shortcomings in your training," he said at last, still with his back to her as he watched the rain in a distant fascination,  "and so we shall."

"So my training is all that matters to you?"

She made no effort to conceal her bitterness; he felt regret close in on him, heavy and stifling.  He drew another deep breath of the rain-fresh air, as if somehow to fight the feeling of being smothered.

"As your former Okashira—"

"I don't need you to be my Okashira!"  She hurled the towel to the floor.  "That's all you ever think about—but I'm different now!  I need something _more_, I need you to be..."

She fell abruptly silent as he slowly turned to face her.  With a visible effort, she stared back—as she had not done since they had met again here in Tokyo, when guilt and fear and doubt had always made her avert her gaze.

Had it really only been two months since he had last faced her pleading eyes?  Somehow they seemed to have changed since then—grown a little darker perhaps, but also a little clearer.  And he, too, had changed: his sorrow no longer a cold, motionless weight in his mind and heart, but instead an odd smoldering urgency that seemed to catch at his breath even as it quickened the blood in his veins.

"I'm sorry, Misao."

He could not remember the last time he had apologized to anyone.  Apologies were for mistakes, and Aoshi prided himself on making very rare mistakes indeed.  But a strange, wordless regret was tightening around his chest and throat at the sight of Misao's eyes filling with tears; and he was determined to earn her forgiveness, though he could not explain why.

"So that's it?"

At her low quaver, Aoshi remembered to breathe again.  She turned away slightly as the first of her tears spilled down her cheek, and he found himself straining to glimpse her strangely pale, taut face.  Had he been expecting a different reaction...?

"Aoshi-sama, of all people..."  She gave a hollow bark of a laugh that made him grimace.  "I thought it would be easy for you..."

"I will do you no such disservice."  Determination, sadness, a longing to have it all over as soon as possible—they hardened his voice almost more than he intended.  He watched, mutely struggling with himself, as she slowly raised her arms to wrap them around herself.

"How is it a disservice," she said quietly, as though more to herself than to him, "when it's the one thing I've wanted with all my heart for as long as I can remember?  When everything I've ever done has been toward someday earning it—"

"Such a thing is not earned."  He met the quick, startled glance of jade eyes evenly, thought of Megumi and her scent of summer flowers.  "Respect is earned, Misao, admiration, but never—"

She cut him off with a small, frustrated cry, her fingers curling into impotent fists.  He fell silent, watching her, weighing her, as she strode over to the side door and tugged it viciously open to the rain outside.

Her back to him, she stood for a moment motionless, her slender figure lined in the unnatural gray light of an unsettled dawn.

"I'm sorry."  No longer braced with anger, her voice was fragile and small.  "I'm not what you wanted—"

Aoshi frowned in irritation.  "You still don't understand."

"Then please, Aoshi-sama"—her tired whisper was barely audible, but with its tiny echoes died every trace of his annoyance—"explain it to me."

Suddenly he wished nothing more than to be back in Megumi's room, taking inexplicable comfort in her quiet sleep, counting away the minutes to the morning with the raindrops on the roof.

"If you do not yet understand, Misao, then I cannot help you."

"Does she make you happy?" she said quietly after another quiet moment.

He eyed the defeat bowing her head, curving her back.  "I find peace in her company."

"Peace that you didn't find with me?"

He did not doubt that the hollowness in her voice would haunt him later.

She seemed to accept the silence that was his answer.  "Is that why you left?"

"Yes."  He stared at the rigid set of her shoulders.  "I hoped you would finally understand."

Her humorless smile cut ice-cold into him.  "So I guess I disappointed you again, huh?"

He said nothing.

The pause stretched into several minutes.

Then, just as Aoshi turned to leave, she spoke again, not turning to face him.

"Please, Aoshi-sama"—eyes downcast, she was fidgeting with the end of her braid—"will I ever be anything more to you than Oniwabanshuu?"

He was surprised to feel a smile tug at his mouth, his heart lighter for the first time since they had begun to talk.  "Of course not."  He waited, did not miss the way her entire frame suddenly stiffened.  "No one ever will."

And because he knew she did not yet have the strength to leave him, he left her instead.

She was certainly no onmitsu, but she did not question the instinct that abruptly wakened her from slumber.  Responding to that impulse that was more urgent than any rational thought, she rose from her futon and, striding briskly to the door, opened it to find Aoshi standing outside.

Cinnamon eyes found blue.  Without a word, Megumi reached out her hand.

He touched his fingers to her palm lightly; he would have pulled away immediately but for the firm closing of her hand over his, as he entered her room, his steps unusually slow.

She closed the door behind them and silently enfolded him in her arms.

He realized then that that was exactly what he needed.

_tsuzuku_

We regret to inform you that the unworthy authoress is currently too depressed to elaborate on the customary thanks and apologies.  However, rest assured that she continues to greatly appreciate all her kind readers' support and feedback, that she is very much willing to revise this given constructive criticism,  and that she is already working on the next chapter, determined as hell that it not take as long as this one, nor stink as bad...


	20. Cowherd and Weaver

Tanabata, depending on the region, is celebrated on the seventh day of the seventh month, either on July 7th (solar calendar) or August 7th (lunar calendar).  An old Chinese legend, known in Japan as Kikkoden, portrays the annual convergence of the two stars Veda and Altair as a yearly tryst between two lovers, the weaver princess Orihime and the cowherd prince Hikoboshi.  Their lord king allowed them to only that periodic meeting since being together made them neglect their duties.  Ah, love...

People pray for clear weather at Tanabata, because it's said that the lovers can't meet if it's rainy.

Tomorokoshii is grilled corn doused with soy sauce.  That may sound weird, but apparently it's pretty good.  It's often served at festivals.

Tanzaku is a special kind of paper, cut into strips.  People write wishes on the strips and tie them onto the branches of bamboo at home, at temples, and at schools as a Tanabata tradition.

Mune no Monogatari

by Mirune Keishiko

Nineteen:  Cowherd and Weaver

At the time, two sentries had been posted at the huge gate, dozens others on guard in the driveway beyond.  Then, of course, there had been the four Oniwabanshuu, blending seamlessly into the surroundings as they kept their own watch.  It had been late afternoon then; shafts of amber sunlight had mocked her slow and heavy footsteps with their warmth, and the wind had toyed with her hair as she approached one of the guards.

_"Tell Kanryuu that Takani Megumi has come back."_

Shuddering with the memory, Megumi stopped dead on the overgrown path, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

It was taking every ounce of her courage not to turn and run.

Clenching her hands into fists, she opened her eyes again and stared up at the tall, vine-covered gate.  A heavy, broken chain emerged from the tangle of green to drag along the ground, and one half of the gate swung slightly and soundlessly back and forth with the breeze.  Golden afternoon sunlight sifted through the trees to dapple her gaily patterned festival kimono.

She forced herself to take one more step, and then another, and another—and trying not to really think about it she pushed past the gate with its bobbing tendrils of morning glory and walked up the driveway, whose bricks were broken in places by tall grass.  Some of the old lampposts had fallen over in two years of neglect; small summer flowers made for bursts of color against crumbled gray stone and black iron.

Something dark fluttered overhead and she let out a cry, instinctively raising her arm across her face.  But it was only a bird, disappearing with a screech into the thick, wild foliage that had once been the peach orchard.

The trees had only been for show, of course.  Only Megumi had ever really eaten of their sweet fruit, those rare times she had had energy enough to crave a taste of freshness.  But the rest had simply rotted on the bough or in the ragged undergrowth.  In the summer, the stench of overripe peach and the faint buzz of flies had added to the feeling of decay and oppression.

If the grounds had been neglected two years ago, they resembled a mountain forest now.  Looking through the maze of trees, Megumi wondered what sort of animals had come to take refuge in its shadows and suppressed a shudder.

Before her loomed the old Takeda mansion.  Ivy had grown up the concrete walls; most of the windows were broken, and the roof had fallen in in several spots.  The dense, pervasive hum of cicadas seemed to crowd in upon her hearing as she went up the stairs leading to the main entrance.

She slowed to a halt, staring apprehensively at the tall wooden doors.

It had been five years since she had first passed this way—two since she had last come.

Tightly gripping the collar of her kimono as though she would seize her wildly beating heart to steady it, she laid her other hand on the handle whose fake gold paint had long since rubbed off.

Hesitant mechanisms gave way beneath her pressure.  The door swung open, and Megumi covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve as musty, warm air flowed out past her.

"Excuse me," she called out into the silent house.  After a moment, she lowered her sleeve, though the stale smells of dust and old lacquer made her nose wrinkle.  "Excuse me," she repeated more loudly.

There was no answer.  Megumi shook her head.  Of course, whoever might have been left on watch was probably enjoying the festival—like everyone else sensible enough not to visit old abandoned mansions alone.

She proceeded inside, on a sudden thought making sure to leave the door ajar.  Her geta clattered against the wooden floor, echoed eerily through the stagnant silence of the hallway; she cringed and tried to walk more quietly.  A fingertip touched to the banister of the front staircase came away gray with dust.

She emerged into the old ballroom and came to a halt.  The weight of phantom pain bent her head.

It seemed the mansion had been all but totally abandoned once Takeda had been arrested.  The bare walls were discolored where paintings had been ripped off their moorings, and peppered with trails of bullet holes.  The paneled wood was chipped and broken, the varnish dull.  Where an ostentatious chandelier had once glittered overhead, there was now only a small, ugly stump bristling with disconnected wires.  And in the fading sunlight tilting in through the far windows, Megumi thought she saw old bloodstains clouding the floor's neglected polish.

She, and Kenshin, and Aoshi, Sanosuke, Yahiko, and Kaoru—how far they had all come since that night.

Lost in thought she made her way slowly through the other, smaller rooms, noting the furniture that had been removed or forgotten, the various small, ordinary things left behind as clutter.  Memories she had not visited in years flitted past her in echoes and shadows, as loud and vivid as she dared to recall them.

The huge den whose walls and floor were pitted with scars and scratches had been the weaponry.  The chamber that was once hers had long since been stripped bare.  The library had been her sanctuary countless times, holding many texts that had been in her father's own collection at home, allowing her to escape, for precious hours at a time, the reality that awaited her the moment she stepped outside.  Now the shelves were naked save for a few odd volumes and a thick film of dust.

A green, pungent odor hinted at decay from behind the door to the ofuro.  Skating her fingertips along the wooden paneling, Megumi thought of Aizu and walked past the door without stopping.  The spacious room that had been Takeda's office she, too, passed with only a moment's glance inside; in a house full of unpleasant ghosts, she hardly needed one more room of them.

She could not, however, ignore the door that led down to the basement.

Workplace and prison in one—Takeda had had the entire chamber fitted out as a makeshift laboratory.  Megumi bit her lip, blinking back tears as she went slowly into the cavernous room.  The various vessels and instruments were gathering dust in their accustomed places, though some had fallen to the floor or been shattered.  The fireplace, kept assiduously clean so long ago, was full of cobwebs.  In a corner was a thin Western-style pallet, the sheets still neatly folded, though gray with grime.

The room seemed to have hardly been touched since perhaps that last day she had worked here—some indistinct, colorless day lost in a series of so many others like it, her mind deadened, her heart still, and her hands working on their own in a kind of automatic knowledge.  Her tools, the fireplace, the little bed for when Takeda had insisted she work overnight—keeping them meticulously in order had been one way to steal time from her loathsome duties, and one way she had somehow reassured herself, amid so many leering guards, away from Takeda's humorless grin, that she still held some sort of control over her own life.

That last day she had worked here was important only because Takeda had spoken to her, the previous evening, about the Spider's Web.  And that morning, before mustering the very dregs of her courage for one final attempt at escape, she had burned her books and notebooks—every single dog-eared page, every diagram, every chart and illustration that contained any information about the opium recipe.

She had knelt by the fireplace and watched the papers dissolve into a bed of ash, and envied how they so easily and completely disappeared from the world.

Gradually Megumi became aware that she was standing before the old fireplace, her arms wrapped tightly around her trembling body, weeping.

Then a warm, solid presence enveloped her in strong arms, and she sank wordlessly against Aoshi's broad chest.

"You forge into old regrets so boldly, Megumi-san."  There was a note of respect in his voice she had not heard in some time.  "Do you never fear being unable to escape them afterward?"

"Sometimes I do," she murmured into his shirt, feeling heat flood her tearstained cheeks.  "But it's a bad habit of mine, I'm afraid."

They ascended from the basement to find the house dark with the onset of evening.  The chorus of insects was deafening.

"You are missing the festivities," said Aoshi, lighting an old storm lantern he found in one of the old servants' rooms.

Megumi smiled.  "You're right.  I'd almost forgotten.  But there is still one more place..."

She turned slightly toward the staircase at the back of the ballroom.

He followed her silently up the stairs, the lantern bobbing gently as he held it aloft to cast its warm yellow light ahead of both of them.  The door to the small observatory opened easily; inside it was pitch black.

Without a word he set the lantern down on one end of the low bench and bent to help Megumi open the shuttered windows.  Cool night air rushed in with the faint aroma of ripening peaches.

For several minutes neither spoke, merely sat by the window and watched, in companionable silence, the lights of Tokyo twinkle in the distance.

"This would be an excellent view for your office," said Aoshi at last.

Startled, she turned to him.  He met her wide-eyed gaze calmly.

"How did you know?"

He shrugged.  "The turnover of such a large private property as the former Takeda estate to the city health officials would not likely escape my notice."

She said nothing, only smiled weakly and settled back into his arm as it came to encircle her.

"You would have preferred I said nothing?"  His lips brushed her cheek and she shivered, not unpleasantly.

"I'm glad you already know, actually.  I was wondering precisely how to bring it up with you."

The lantern was already burning low.  Aoshi marked the orange flicker of its flame without comment.

"They want to send me and several others to Europe to study for a while."

"A woman?"  Aoshi's voice was deep with surprise.  "Since when has the government been intelligent enough to recognize the potentials of the other half of its citizenry?"

Megumi laughed.  "Let's just say my family name seems to have well enough survived the transition into the new era."  In the darkness, her fingers entwined with his.  "This is to be a hospital, and a model training center for women nurses besides.  And they want me to assist in the administration."

"You'll move from Aizu."

She paused.  "Yes."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Almost three years, if all goes well."

The lantern sputtered, gave a last, dying hiss as its flame went out.  Through the windows, the night sky glowed a deep blue.

For some reason, Megumi's thoughts strayed back to that first meeting in Aizu months ago, when she and Aoshi had had that most awkward lunch at the restaurant.  She smiled to herself.  At that time, she had been on her guard against him, and against the deluge of memories he evoked in her; she had feared that he would somehow destroy her new life, even if only with his presence.

"I'm so glad the rain cleared up in time," sighed Megumi, smiling up at the stars.  "Come then," she said more briskly, standing up and tugging at his hand.  "I don't want to miss the fireworks."

Hesitating only a little as she made her way through the darkness, she led him out of the observatory, down the staircase, through the grand ballroom that echoed now only with their footsteps, down the other stairway and out the double doors.  He said nothing, but she suspected his amusement in the way his fingers slid around hers, and the way he followed her without a word through the shadow-strewn path away from the mansion—almost indulgently; and perhaps two months ago she would have been thoroughly irritated at this, except that now she felt only an answering mirth.

"They're setting up already."  She permitted herself a grin, straining to see through the milling crowd as they emerged from a side street into the well-lit avenue leading to the temple.  "Do you see Ken-san and the others anywhere?"

She caught the tail ends of bright streamers in her hands as he scanned the throng from his enviable height.  "Kaoru-san appears to be buying tomorokoshii."

"Is Misao-chan with her?"  Megumi turned to look at him, willing him to read her gaze as she sought to read his.  He responded with an abrupt nod.

Megumi hesitated; though she was eager to catch up with her old friends, there was something she had yet to make clear.  "Aoshi-san—"

"There is no need for concern."

But he looked away, and in the midst of the noise and bustle of the crowd, Megumi felt his silent sadness seep into her.

"When I'm gone..."

"I will be in Kyoto, with Misao and the others."  Humor, gentleness, reassurance tightened his grasp on her hand.  "It will be time well spent."

She stared hard at him then, and after a moment found herself relaxing into a smile.  "You must promise not to assassinate any gaijin I bring back with me," she teased, pushing past him through the throng.

"Now, woman"—he stooped to murmur low in her ear—"you ask too much."

Misao's smile of greeting was obviously strained as Megumi and Aoshi approached.  But Suzume and Ayame soon distracted their new Misao-neechan with their insistence on being taken up to the rooftops to watch the fireworks, and visibly perking up, the kunoichi soon disappeared to exert herself for her young charges.  After some cheerful advice to keep his grandchildren from bumping their little heads, old Genzai-sensei let them go to amuse himself with a blitheness that made Megumi sweatdrop.

"There is no need for concern," said Aoshi quietly, looking down at her with a very faint smile.

Kaoru led them to where Kenshin sat comfortably with Kenji, Yahiko, and Tsubame under a stand of feathery maple trees on a nearby hill.  Sitting beside Tsubame who promptly offered the newcomers some Akabeko sushi, Yahiko was being unusually irritable toward everyone in sight.  Megumi decided to take pity on him and divert his attention from Tsubame's distracting presence—by teasing him.

"Ken-san, exactly how much has Yahiko-kun had to drink yet tonight?  Look at him, he's red all over!  You should know better than to give a child liquor!"

"Hey, I'm not a child!"

"Anou, Megumi-dono, Yahiko really hasn't had any sake yet..."

"Oh, dear, then you must have a truly unusual allergy, Yahiko-kun.  Is it the heat?  Does the lamplight hurt your eyes?  You seem to be avoiding it.  Perhaps you should lie down awhile."

Now Tsubame matched Yahiko cheek for flushed cheek, Kenshin was sweatdropping violently, and even Kaoru appeared to be groping for a different topic of conversation.  Her work accomplished, Megumi leaned back with a warm cup of sake and felt immensely pleased with herself.  Beside her, Aoshi was still, silent, and terribly amused.

She remembered with a smile the tanzaku she had tied that morning to the dojo bamboo, with her wish for a certain toriatama to be safe and happy, and to always find his way, wherever he was.

Somehow, all felt right with the world.

And as the first of the Tanabata fireworks arced into the starry sky for a dazzling burst of red and gold fire, Aoshi's hand found hers in the evening darkness.  He raised it to his lips for a barely felt kiss that sent heat sparkling through her.

He did not have to smile.  She did it for him.

_tsuzuku_

**A.N.**  Wonderful to be back on familiar ground.  Darned if I ever even think to write Misao again...

Is it just me, or is this chapter distinctly lacking in that delicious WAFFy goodness?  Just keep in mind, folks, I aim to please.  Will be happy to revise if need be.  Can't quite put my finger on it, but I seem to be a bit off kilter these days... must be hung over from summer vacation...

The nice thing about obsessively reading and rereading Aoshi/Megumi fanfic:  Halfway through this installment I remembered **BarbaraSheridan**'s "Separate Lives," where Aoshi also surprises Megumi while she's angsting up a storm in Takeda's old mansion.  But I promise, the resemblance is purely coincidental.  Heh. (sweatdrop)  But that _is_ of course a truly excellent story.

**Amberle-chan**, welcome to the Fire & Ice fandom!  Yipe, being an old Sano/Megumi fan myself, I'm a bit wary of converts like you and me.  Hehe.  But the kitsune onna is happy, so all's well. **Rissi-Sama**, heehee, I'm afraid I share a bit of your, erm, strong feelings against Misao after wrestling so hard with her for the previous chapter.  **conspirator**'s support is always, always appreciated! (bows deeply)  The same goes for **mij**—oh, for some reason (even though you so faithfully review my instalments), I missed you!  When you brought up the "Megumi supporting Aoshi for once" angle in an earlier bit of feedback, you really brought up something I'd had on my mind quite a while.  I sort of wanted to prolong that particular scene, but I felt that would really have been overdoing it.  **jojobilu**, you are such a sweet person!  Yes, Misao does deserve to be happy.  But I'll let better weasel-writers handle that instead.  Just you wait for when **eriesalia**-sama updates "Blades, Knives, Steel, and Mettle"!  ...I appreciate your poking, **Cherie Dee**!  Your updates for all your fics are always so good!  **akisakura**, sorry to have disappointed with the shortish previous installment.  I must admit I was already becoming afraid of pumping things up too much, so I sort of weaseled out when I could.  (Bad pun intended.)****

**Leila Winters** gets an extra big heaping of gratitude for all her fun reviews.  I'm overjoyed to find a fellow squealer at last!  I'd give you a huge smiley here if only FFnet wouldn't erase it. (pout)  But I'm so glad you're enjoying things so far—even if, gomen nasai!, sometimes this unworthy one doesn't write consistently quite so well...

Of course, sniffly thanks too to those who reviewed Chapter 18.  Sometimes I think I only wallow in unhealthy mudpools of angst so that the romance comes out even more enjoyable.  Teehee!


	21. Epilogue Part One: In Undertones

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part One: In Undertones_

Three Years Later

_16th year of Meiji (Spring, 1883)_

The sakura in bloom throughout Ueno Park were even more beautiful than she remembered them to be. She had striven in vain many times the past three years to recall exactly how the blossoms smelled; alighting from the carriage and drawing a long, deep, delighted breath of the still-frosty spring morning, she savored now the delicate, ephemeral fragrance of home. With all the air filled with that unmistakable scent, she wondered with a smile how it had managed to elude her all these years, when she had craved its memory so much.

"Megumi-san! Over here!"

Though a thousand thoughts and questions were whirling inside her head, much like the pale petals being blown hither and thither by the wind, Takani Megumi gladly set them aside to follow that familiar voice.

She made her way along the path to where the Himuras sat beneath a stand of feathery trees—Kaoru in a festive kimono and unfamiliar hairstyle, cuddling rosy-cheeked little Kenji, and a serenely smiling Kenshin. "O-hisashiburi ne!" Megumi called out, hastily disguising her shock as she came near enough to confirm her first, stunned impression—Kenshin had cut his hair.

Megumi tried not to stare at him as Kaoru cheerfully explained about the others invited to the little party: Misao, Yahiko. Kaoru didn't mention one particular name, didn't have to; and Megumi wasn't sure whether she was glad of that or not.

At that moment Kenji began to fuss, drawing his mother's prompt, cooing attention. Relieved at the distraction, which drew Kaoru's too-bright blue eyes from hers, Megumi simply nodded. She turned toward Kenshin, fighting a fresh surge of unwelcome thoughts at the one name said, and the other left unspoken. _We'll have time for that later._

"Hello, Ken-san." The old nickname slipped comfortably from her lips as she bowed and smiled at him. Over five years, what had been an impish, flirtatious tone had mellowed to a private, deeply banked affection. As he smiled back up at her, she knew he understood. He always had.

The haircut suited him quite well after all, Megumi decided at last. "How are you feeling?"

"Very well, thank you."

The scar was fading. Megumi beamed.

"It certainly looks that way."

She set down her things and sat down on the mat, gratefully accepting a cup of sake Kaoru poured. Megumi's heart was beating wildly in her chest, and not because of the springtime beauty around her. She welcomed the heat the liquor traced down her throat, drew the blue gi she wore as a jacket more closely around her shoulders and across her chest. It wasn't that cold; she was fidgeting, and she knew it and cursed herself for it—fidgeting, at her age!—but she couldn't seem to stop.

What would he look like? What would he say? After so long... so very long... what could she still hope for?

"And you, Megumi-dono?"

Startled, she looked up. Kenshin was smiling at her as kindly as ever. For a moment she merely stared at him, forgetting he had spoken at all.

How she'd missed him, these three years.

"How have you been?" he said cheerfully.

Megumi opened her mouth to speak, but—before that soft purple gaze—was interrupted by utterly unexpected tears moistening her eyes. She sputtered a laugh, wiping at her burning cheeks, smiling ruefully and shaking her head.

Kenshin met his wife's anxious glance with a gentle one. "I expect it will be too noisy around here soon enough, but you'll have to tell us your stories some time. I'm sure many things have happened."

Megumi smiled again, unsteadily, breath catching somewhat on her tears.

_Tadaima_.

And a voice raised in a cheery shout, somehow less shrill than she remembered it to be, came echoing through the trees.

"'Afternoon!" A younger Makimachi Misao might have greeted them with a flying kick, but at any rate, much the same energy showed in her long, confident strides, her frost-pink cheeks, her broad grin. Her hair, much shorter and no longer in its old braid, fluttered around her shoulders with the breeze. "Here we are!"

Here they were indeed. Megumi steeled herself with a deep breath and looked up with a ready smile, as Kaoru and Kenshin called back their greetings to the two figures rapidly approaching from the road.

Misao had grown much since Megumi had last seen her. What had once been a still-childlike roundness about the younger girl's face had given way to high, graceful cheekbones, and the austere lines of her gi and hakama served to emphasize the femininity of the slender figure within. With shining hair drifting in waves with the wind, softly framing her slightly suntanned face, she was very... charming, as the Englishmen liked to say.

With an effort, Megumi shifted her gaze to the tall man who loomed beside Misao, slowly removing a very battered-looking white coat.

Aoshi was looking straight at her.

Kaoru cast her friend a sidelong glance, grateful for Misao's cheery banter and Kenshin's ready reply that filled the air in what would have been an awkward pause. Megumi's smile had slipped; she looked stricken, her posture stiff, eyes shadowed as she stared at Aoshi's silently nearing form.

_You don't know how beautiful you look, Megumi-san_, thought Kaoru admiringly. Megumi's cheeks were bright pink, seeming to match the petals that swirled past her face.

And then, as if on cue, both Kaoru and Megumi turned toward Misao, who gave them both a jubilant hug before settling down. Aoshi bowed silently to the party and then took a seat on the mat next to Kenshin. As Megumi watched out the corner of her eye, the two men exchanged low words.

Yahiko finally arrived, with Tsubame in tow, still clad in her frilly Akabeko uniform. Megumi let slip a laugh at what was undoubtedly the indefatigable Tae's latest fashion innovation. Still, the design was quite—what did the French call it? _chic_—and judging by the faint blush across Tsubame's face, the little girl probably didn't know what a pretty picture she made.

Then again—Megumi smiled to herself—had Tsubame ever gotten over her habitual blushing?

"So, is everybody here?" chirped Misao. Her eyes glowed brighter than ever as Kaoru opened the bento boxes everyone had brought to reveal all kinds of snacks inside.

"Yup," said Kaoru happily. "Oh, but really, I wanted to invite one more person." Her eyes grew wistful. "But we don't know where he is, so..."

"Yes, that roosterhead!" And Megumi shook her head, her tones light although her heart was suddenly heavy. So, it seemed that truly none of them knew where Sano was—

"Oops." And Yahiko drew an envelope from his sleeve. "I almost forgot. Here's a letter from that roosterhead. I found it on my way out of the dojo."

Megumi glanced up. "What!" shrieked Misao.

And then there was a furor among the females as Kenshin unfolded the letter. "Open it, open it!" "Kenshin, read it!" "Where's that idiot been?"

He had been in America, Europe, and Arabia, it seemed, and was now in Mongolia. Kenshin paused as his audience buzzed with amazement. "Does that idiot mean to cross the whole world?" "What the heck is he thinking?" "Does he intend to be an adventurer!"

As Kenshin went on to read aloud Sano's closing request for rice and miso soup, Megumi couldn't help but laugh—partly in relief, partly in sadness. She almost wished that she'd somehow known when he'd been in Europe, they could have met, even for just a day or two, if he were too busy to meet her for much longer; she would have liked to see him again. Sometimes she'd felt so alone...

Kenshin tucked the letter away in his pocket as Yahiko, Kaoru, and Misao fell to excitedly speculating about the gangster-turned-world-traveler. Tsubame began pouring drinks for all, surprising everyone with a few timid comments on what she had heard of the foreign countries from working in the restaurant. Megumi noticed a bottle-like bamboo container that seemed to be sitting lonely and unnoticed by the other bento boxes.

"Shall I open this as well, Ken-san?" she asked, picking it up.

"Please do, Megumi-dono, thank you," said the former rurouni with a slight smile, accepting a cup of sake from Tsubame with a nod of thanks. "I am sorry that the water has doubtless lost some of its heat. But will you take tea with us, Aoshi?" he asked solemnly of the man seated next to him, who had mostly kept silent since his arrival.

Aoshi raised deep blue eyes. "I will. I thank you for your consideration."

The first words he had spoken aloud since he came. Megumi found she could not meet his gaze, kept hers firmly fixed on the tea things Kenshin magically produced from seemingly nowhere.

Suddenly it seemed as though all the others were miles away; through an odd hum in her ears, she could hear their lighthearted chatter—Kaoru, Yahiko, Misao, and the others—as though echoing across a great distance. With her thoughts racing too fast for her to focus them on the simple task of making tea, Megumi felt an a kind of detached amazement at how her hands seemed to move of their own accord in the well-practiced tasks.

Despite Kenshin's modest comments, steam began curling into the air as soon as the bamboo flask was opened. First, she warmed the empty pot by swirling water inside, then discarding it; still not lifting her eyes to his, she retrieved just the right amount of tea leaves from the canister, placed them in the pot, and finally poured in the water to the correct level. Replacing the lid on the pot to let the tea steep, she let out a long, shivering breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

He was watching her so closely.

Megumi forced herself to look up, to return his intense gaze with her own coy one. "I must say your conversational skills have improved vastly these three years, Aoshi-san."

"Hardly any more than yours, Megumi-san," he said smoothly.

At his calm reply, she had to bite back a smile of relief, even as her eyes filled with sudden tears for the umpteenth time that afternoon. She bent her head over the teacups to hide them. "I hope all is well in Kyoto?"

"As might be expected."

"Ah." Wiping an imaginary speck of dust from the cups, Megumi wished time would hurry up and give her something to do, such as pour the still-steeping tea. "Misao seems in good spirits after what must have been a tiring journey."

"She rarely seems otherwise," he said tonelessly.

"I suppose so." Megumi grit her teeth. Confusion, doubt, hope, uncertainty were fast giving way to plain old-fashioned irritation at the closemouthed man. We'll see who blinks first, she thought grimly, and chided herself for having begun the conversation at all.

She sank into a dogged silence, her initial irritation worsened by the apparent serenity with which Aoshi, for his part, responded in kind. For several moments Megumi forced herself to turn away and watch the others chatting, all the while terribly aware that Aoshi sat unmoving as ever.

I wonder if his heart is even beating, she thought crossly.

Every one of the three minutes that the tea steeped passed in an agony of tension for Megumi. When at last the time was right, she picked up the teapot—gripping the handle perhaps a little more tightly than was absolutely necessary—and poured its contents, wordlessly, into the cups.

Aoshi accepted the cup from her hands with a nod. Megumi looked away.

For a moment she sipped her tea studiously, determined not to speak. But finally she had had enough of his staring.

"Is something the matter, Aoshi-san?" Inwardly she winced. That sounded more blatantly annoyed than she'd hoped.

He said nothing for another moment, merely glanced up at her, then took another meditative sip of his tea. Megumi fumed silently as he savored it first before swallowing in an infuriatingly unhurried manner, and then looked at her again.

He was distinctly upset. Aoshi never had enjoyed being played the fool, and apparently still didn't. Megumi almost laughed, but her mirth would never have made it out past the lump in her throat.

"I was merely thinking," he said slowly, "that some would call the simplicity of your appearance refreshing when so many other Meiji women are draping themselves in Western gaudiness."

"Do you think so, Aoshi-san?" Megumi took a sip of her own cup, wrapping her hands snugly around it to stop their unexpected trembling. "I find that unnecessary ornaments hamper my movements."

"No doubt." His gaze was dark and unreadable as it weighed her down. "It appears that little has changed in you, Megumi-san."

Megumi's serene smile belied the renewed pounding of her heart. "Oh, but I _have_ learned quite a few things in the West with regard to... ornamentation, as we say, Aoshi-san."

He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion, as she reached for something around her neck that had been well hidden beneath the collar of her kimono. "Not all of it is gaudy. And this way it does not disturb my work."

It was a curious mix of pleasure and pain, excitement and apprehension, that tightened in her chest as she brought forth a ring hung on a slender gold chain. Morning sunlight caught and gleamed in red, sparkled in blue.

She looked up at wide blue eyes, beautifully clear in their astonishment.

"Shall we have a talk?" she said quietly.

_tsuzuku_

_

* * *

_

**A/N.** The "Haru ni Sakura" ("Cherry Blossoms in the Spring") story here is adapted somewhat loosely from the Serizawa Kamo translation.

Whoever heard of a multipart epilogue? I sure haven't. Sigh. Hehe. Still, I _am_ trying, O readers who have been extremely kind and patient all this time. I have for you overflowing gratitude, and a whole bunch of tangled-up ideas I'm striving very hard to give birth to for you all, before this fic comes to a close at last. Thank you so much for reading, and for _waiting!_


	22. Epilogue Part Two: Unfinished Business

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part Two: Unfinished Business_

Three Years Earlier

_13th year of Meiji (August, 1880)_

With the summer evening's cricket-dense shadows darkening the trees all around them, his long hair fringing his cheekbones and tempting her to reach out and brush it back, and the soft glow from the pond's paper lanterns gleaming in the even bronze of his skin—he looked absolutely magnificent, solemn and handsome and regal as a princely hero straight out of the most girlish romances.

And when he raised his eyes to hers, their deep blue reflecting the lanterns' light and mimicking the star-flecked sky above, Megumi felt her heart flutter in her chest, the blood throb hot and dizzying in her temples.

"Megumi-san."

"H-hai?" she quavered, most uncharacteristically. She felt herself blush in frustration; she couldn't help it! And the pervasive scent of roses, while decidedly pleasant, was not exactly conducive to proper breathing, either...

Ara? Roses? Ah, but now she saw that the surface of the pond was strewn with rose petals, their crimson shapes marking dark spots on the calm glassy surface. Enchanted, Megumi lifted a hand to her pounding heart—he'd thought of everything!

She thought she would pass out once and for all when Aoshi took up the other hand, the one that wasn't clutching for dear life at the collar of her kimono, as though she felt stifled by the garment and needed air. Aoshi's palms were calloused and hardened, but his fingers slid smooth and gentle across her skin. Megumi swallowed involuntarily as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, before raising those midnight eyes to hers once again.

"I understand that I have so little to give. That, on the other hand, I ask of you so much. That I lay this before you freely, that I have no hold over you, even though you have a hold over me far greater than I could ever wish to break. That the future is uncertain, and that at the same time, I have never had such a stake in it as I do now..."

Megumi drew a slow, shuddering breath as he spoke, tears rising out of both rapidly mounting joy and... and... well... _sap_.

I can't help it!—she blubbered to herself—he's so sweet, he's babbling now, of all people he's babbling, and he's babbling over _me_...

"However..."

She bit her lip to keep it steady as he reached for something in an inside pocket of his suit. The tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks when he drew out a small black velvet-covered box. But for his warm, tight grasp on it, she knew her hand would have been shaking wildly.

"If you will..."

It was a Western-style ring. Gorgeous. Heaven knew she'd sneaked enough glimpses into jewelry shop windows to know that that fiery ruby and that deep-glimmering sapphire were of first-class quality. It must have cost a dozen fortunes. Oh, Aoshi... Megumi's lip trembled despite herself.

"Megumi-san..."

"Hai?" she whispered.

He gazed up at her, earnest, hopeful, longing, his night-hued eyes more expressive than she'd ever seen them to be.

"Megumi-san..."

"Aa?" she repeated, a bit more impatiently. Get on with it, already! she thought.

But he continued to gaze up at her soulfully.

"MEGUMI-SAN!"

And with a startled gasp, Megumi awoke to find Aoshi's face inches from hers, expressionless as always. Striving to catch her breath, Megumi blinked hard, feeling her heart thud in her chest and this time from no pleasant dreams. She realized she had fallen asleep, ending up slumped against his shoulder. Surreptitiously she wiped a trail of drool from her chin.

And that had been _such_ a lovely ring...

Aoshi watched her silently for a moment, and Megumi, heat flooding her cheeks, yearned to punch the silent amusement out of his gaze.

"We've arrived at the dojo," he said.

Sure enough, Megumi alit from the carriage to find Kaoru waiting with a ready smile and Kenji cradled in her arm, while Kenshin and Yahiko were already helping the coachmen unload the baggage.

"Did everything go well in Aizu, Megumi-san?" and Kaoru beamed with maternal pride as Kenji cooed, eagerly reaching out to play with Megumi's long hair.

"Quite well, thank goodness. The Sanadas have taken care of many things for me. And how are you all, Kaoru-chan?"

"We're doing just fine, thank you, Megumi-dono." Kenshin, on his way back out of the dojo to retrieve more cargo, smiled and bowed slightly.

"Glad to see that." Megumi ruffled Yahiko's hair as he passed by laden with boxes, earning an amiable grunt from the boy in response. "Misao-chan has gone?"

"She left right after you did, taking the Toukai path back to Kyoto. She said a nice long walk alone would do her good. But you both must be tired from all the trips you've been making." Kaoru led the way toward the house. Megumi glanced back to see Aoshi shouldering one of the heavier chests. "There's tea and refreshments waiting for you."

When Megumi paused near-imperceptibly, Kaoru rolled her eyes. "Kenshin made it, okay?"

"What, did I say anything? I didn't say anything." And with a loud peal of laughter that had all the others sweatdropping, Megumi followed Kaoru into the dojo.

Once they were well out of earshot in the dining hall, knowing that the menfolk would be occupied for a while yet with Megumi's things, Kaoru turned on her friend with a bright, almost predatory gleam in her eyes and a huge grin across her face. Quickly Megumi scooped Kenji into her own arms before Kaoru accidentally smothered him in her looming enthusiasm.

Kaoru burst.

"So, has he said anything? He has to have said something. Will we have a wedding? He'll want it as soon as possible, of course. Mou, but you don't have that much time! I'm so excited!" Thus squealing, Kaoru hugged herself, abstract gaze turning starry-eyed, cheeks flushing bright pink as Megumi calmly helped herself to tea and mochi. "If you need help with the kimono and everything, I don't know if you had time to really shop, but that's okay, I'll bet Tae-san's going to help too if we ask her. Ohmigosh, what am I going to wear? And Kenshin—"

"Kaoru-chan." At Megumi's dry tone, Kaoru caught herself and stared more sanely at her friend. Megumi took a bite of her mochi. "There is no wedding."

"O—oh." Kaoru frowned, puzzled. Then she brightened again. "Oh, that's okay, Megumi-san, we really understand." She nodded reflectively, mouth pursing in thought. "Yeah, there really isn't time. You probably have other things to do and a temple ceremony takes weeks to—"

"No. Don't you get it?" And Kaoru pouted at her sharp tone. Megumi sighed—her exhaustion after the long trip and her own frustration was getting the best of her. "Gomen, I didn't mean it to come out that way. But there is no wedding."

With a steely cinnamon gaze she looked at Kaoru directly. At first, the younger girl blinked, uncomprehending—then her blue eyes went wide.

"No!"

"Yes." Megumi sighed again, pouring another cup of tea and thinking to drown her sorrows in it.

"That's not right!" cried Kaoru indignantly, pounding the floor so that the teacups jumped.

"..." said Megumi, finishing her mochi.

"What's not right, Kaoru?" And Kenshin entered the dining hall, with Yahiko and Aoshi at his heels. Sensing an imminent need to have her hands free, Megumi lifted Kenji into his father's embrace.

Kaoru turned scorching eyes to Aoshi. "Do you mean to tell me that—mrmmph!"

"She's a little excited about me going off abroad," said Megumi, smiling sweetly as she clamped the younger girl's mouth shut with one hand and held back Kaoru's flailing fists with the other.

Kenshin returned a similar smile, even though Kenji squirming in his arms and striking tiny dimpled fists against his chest must have been quite distracting. "Yes, it is indeed a wonderful idea, Megumi-dono. I'm sure you will enjoy yourself very much."

"I believe so, Ken-san." Since Kaoru seemed to have calmed down somewhat and was no longer struggling in her grip, Megumi let her go. "Though I'm definitely going to miss home," she added wistfully, looking around at the dojo.

"You won't miss busu's cooking, that's for sure," laughed Yahiko as he bit into some mochi, and Megumi was almost glad for his comment, because it kept Kaoru occupied glaring bloody murder at him than at anyone else in particular.

Afternoon faded quickly into evening in a hum of activity around the dojo. Megumi and Kaoru busied themselves sorting the doctor's belongings into what she would store away in the roomy storage shed and what the Himuras could make use of in the time she would be gone. Kenshin, at his wife's behest, was acting as porter; and Megumi sensed with some unease that Kaoru was having entirely too much fun ordering him about.

"Kenshin, you can put this away now. ...Oh sorry! No, come back! Be careful, that might break! You men never know how to take care of delicate things. I meant that one. No, silly, put that down this instant. I meant the one over there. Poor boy, is it heavy? I'm sure you can handle it, you big strong hunk o' man... Be sure to put it way over in the back of the shed, and move those other things over to the other side... Sorry about the dust..."

"_Koishii_, I'll have a word with you later," growled Kenshin out the corner of his mouth to his wife; fortunately, Megumi's hearing was keen. Kenshin's narrowed eyes were a smoky purple as they settled on Kaoru.

Kaoru winked at him. "I'm looking forward to it, _anata_."

Megumi waited until Kenshin had left, slightly huffing and puffing now on his third hour of carting parcels and crates and boxes back and forth from the shed to the engawa, before turning an admiring gaze on Kaoru sitting beside her. "Why, Kaoru-chan, I didn't know you had it in you. I guess I'm leaving Ken-san in _very_ capable hands after all."

"Why, _quite_ capable, thank you, Megumi-san."

And at Kaoru's too-innocent smile and the too-devilish twinkle in her eye, Megumi had to laugh.

Neither of them noticed Aoshi standing some way behind them, watching the scene with interest.

Yahiko had been banished to the other side of the house with plenty of assigned sword-swings to keep him out of their way. As the women had worked, they had heard the echoes of his rhythmic shouts striking a cadence in the air. Suddenly, however, Megumi paused; and Kaoru, too, noticed the stillness.

"Oei, Yahiko!" she called in feigned annoyance. "I don't hear you anymore!"

"We've got a guest, busu," he shouted from the house. And soon two figures, one slightly taller than the other, emerged onto the engawa. Rising to her feet, Megumi dimly registered Aoshi approaching them, looking almost as surprised as she herself felt.

"Hello again, minna!" said Makimachi Misao cheerily. "I'm back!"

_tsuzuku_

_

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**A/N.** Hope everyone had fun in this installment. (grin)

To lawless, AzaleaFaye, Trupana (how I've missed you too!), eriesalia (many FFnet-deleted hearts, right back at you!), nuke-grrl (hope you're doing fine), ladie shinomori, yvonne, Larissa Hyuga (glad to be back.), surfer sea turtle, Mary-Ann, Lidens, and ak0: Many thanks, as always, for the reviews! Always warms a writer's heart to know there's an audience out there to receive the fruits of her labor. Even and especially after the long delay! (insert huge smiley here)

Further, special heads-up to lawless, AzaleaFaye, Thief Rikku, Larissa Hyuga, Sharon Herrera, eviladdict, ak0, Lidens, captaineccentric, CWolf2, and everyone else who responded to Chapter 19 (or 20, on FFnet). Your reviews certainly did not let me forget that I had a fic to finish, even if I took my time doing it. (smiley here, again)

To Evil FFnet Auto-Formatting which Deletes All Smileys: Fie upon you, I say! Fie! Fie!

**edit.** Sorry for whatever confusion might have happened over the timeline. Part One takes place at the time of the official Watsuki-sama epilogue, "Haru ni Sakura," i.e. 3 years after the MnM timeline, with Megumi coming home from studying abroad. Part Two takes place three years _before_ Part One, i.e. in the regular MnM timeline. Again, sorry for the switching timelines.Ü


	23. Epilogue Part Three: Yield

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part Three: Yield_

She always comes home around this time. She is quite firm on that: Her meetings can drag on, she very often receives invitations to evening affairs, and her associates can be _quite_ persistent—but she always finds some way around them, always arrives just in time to help with dinner at the dojo. She says she is making the most of her time left here before leaving. Never let it be said that Takani Megumi let anyone else stand in the way of her decisions.

I, for my part, merely circumvent them.

Of the five days I have watched her walk home along this way, she has never noted my presence. It gives me an odd sense of reassurance to know this. I tell myself it is to protect her, to watch over her, to make sure she stays safe and unmolested... by ruffians she might know, as well as those she doesn't. I ignore the unexpectedly melancholy thought that I will no longer be able to do this for her in those foreign lands, where she may actually need such protection more.

She would never approve of my behavior if she were to find out. But she should already know that I am just as persistent as she is, if not more so, and I do not intend to sit by in idleness while she makes her way across this turbulent city by herself.

The preparations she has needed to make for this journey already take her away from me for most of the day. I will steal what I can of precious time with her. Whether she's aware of it or not.

This afternoon, she seems to be taking her time leaving the embassy. It is one of the newer buildings near the harbor, a solidly built marble masterpiece of contemporary Western architecture that manages to be rather less monstrous than some of the other foreign buildings that have sprung up in this area. The security around this building—politically important, if not quite aesthetically pleasing—is riddled with holes. It is through one such hole that I have made my way over to the hospitable branches of this tree, where I can catch glimpses of silky hair and pale skin through an open window.

Her voice drifts on the breeze. She moves out of sight after a few minutes, probably takes a seat on one of the embroidered sofas in the Ambassador's parlor—this is not her first visit here, nor mine. Thus constrained from watching her, I pass the time by watching the sun set on Tokyo Bay instead. Megumi should be noticing the fading daylight soon, and taking her leave. She pays attention to such things. She doesn't much care for social niceties. She's too smart for that. Too independent. Too driven.

It has been a while since I last had this intensity about me, this focus drawing every thought, every act, every breath almost, every beat of my heart to itself. It used to be the leadership of the Oniwabanshuu. It still is, to some degree—even though the power of that concern over me has begun to wane somewhat, now that others have taken command and many have gone their own way. For a while, it was meditation that aroused this peculiar discipline in me. But one tends to run out of reflections when one is too well isolated from the world. Certainly, ever since I came to know her better, I have had no end of new thoughts, new ideas, new observations.

It is nothing so obvious as her name whispering in my head with the rhythm of my pulse, or some other such nonsense as younger idiots like to say... but now there is always an insistence in my blood, it seems, calling me to her, reminding me of her, never using words or images so much as...

...feelings.

Moments of... desire. Longing. And, ironically, satisfaction. Giving me no other recourse but to dwell on her. Something inside me seems to glow, something warm tightens in my chest, snatching unexpectedly at my breath, and all I can think of is her.

It is an odd sensation, both pleasant and somewhat painful, restful yet disturbing. It fascinates me. I savor every strangely breathless moment, the unusual heat that starts up in me without warning.

I have not felt this way in many, many years—or perhaps I never have.

But for similar reasons I do not trust it. Not entirely. It is beyond my control... and it further displeases me that it even makes me quite uninterested in maintaining control at all. The private thrill of the sudden spark of warmth inside me, the utterly unpremeditated surge of both supreme contentment and immense dissatisfaction whenever she is not at my side—they arrive without regard for reason or logic or schedule, and I know that is part of their delight. Something born of my own intentions could never be so... inordinately pleasing.

Still, there were, after all, extremely sound reasons the Okashira's heart was known as one of ice.

The glassy waters are a dull, gray-blotched red over half an hour later when the embassy's doors open at last. In the lengthening shadows, it is easy to hide myself between shopbuildings on the other side of the street and watch Megumi take her leave of the Ambassador.

She has her usual assortment of eager would-be escorts. I strain to hear their sometimes sleek and polished, sometimes flustered and faltering voices: offering her a snack at one of the new restaurants in town, or a sip or two of exotic tea before she goes home, or, at the very least, a carriage ride; and finally—since she has graciously turned down every one of their proposals—their own humble company on foot across town as she heads home.

On a good day, a motley crew of lawyers, merchants, fellow doctors, or even a naval officer or two might make up such a group of not-so-secret admirers. But today, I see, appears different; one by one the men around Megumi, the Ambassador's friends and associates, leave on their own business after having their company politely declined, until only one is left.

Short reddish hair neatly combed, a fringe of rust-colored beard along strong jaws, a respectable physique filling out the customary black suit, he is, I believe, a textiles producer, in town to conduct business in cottons as well as to observe the local silk industry. Very early thirties, perhaps—or, as Westerners tend to look much older than they actually are, possibly late twenties.

My eyes narrow at the sight of him. He is getting entirely too familiar with her. He has walked Megumi home two afternoons already; he would have made for a third time, except that some emergency came up and he overrode her protestations to drive her home in a carriage instead. His name is James Patrick MacNeill Wilkinson, holding residence for three weeks now at the Higashiya in the Chuo district, and setting sail back to England by the end of this week.

Incidentally, on the _Alianora_... the same ship Megumi will take.

As they step through the ornate iron gates into the street, he offers her his arm in a grandiose sort of gesture; and after a split second, Megumi takes it, smiling at him equally playfully. My blood boils despite myself, my fingers tighten on the hilt of my kodachi.

This is the first time he has touched her. The first time I have seen her smile at him like that.

I keep my anger in check and follow them along the street, padding across the rooftops as lanterns below flicker to life with the onset of evening. If he thinks he can try anything in the growing crush of people... If he dares touch anything else of her...

But now that I look, Megumi appears to be actually laughing with him—he is talking quickly, with a grin that indicates it must be a joke of some sort—and the shapely white hand on his arm never turns into a fist, so I know there is nothing yet amiss.

So why is my blade already an inch out of its sheath?

And why is the odd little breathlessness not quite so pleasant now?

Damn feelings. They obey absolutely no decent logic. I sheathe the blade and leap across a gap to another rooftop, still watching the strolling pair very, very closely indeed. The walk across town will be long, and too much can happen.

* * *

"He calls you 'Lady Megumi'?"

"Oh, but you _really_ mean, 'Okaeri nasai, Megumi-san, I trust your day was pleasant.'" Megumi swept past him, flashing him a sweet smile over her shoulder.

Aoshi emerged from the shadows by the gate to follow her toward the house. "You seem to have taken your time on the way home." I know because I followed your every step, he added mentally.

"Why, yes I did," she says somewhat frostily, not turning to look at him. "Since I'll be leaving already in a few days, I meant to take as many memories with me as I could. Is Ken-san done with dinner? I brought mushi yokan for dessert..."

"Himura is completing his preparations for the meal. And you still haven't answered my question." His blue eyes glittered in the shadows of the eaves.

Megumi sniffed. "You shouldn't have been eavesdropping anyway." She would have walked on, but he moved swiftly to block her path. Elaborately heaving a long-suffering sigh and shaking her head, she reached up to clasp her hands around the back of his neck, smiling up at him patiently. "He overheard Ken-san calling me 'Megumi-dono' the other day and... well, now he understands what it means, but he persists in making it his little game. _Now_ can I go?"

And she pouted up at him, batting her eyelashes, the childlike look on her face so uncharacteristic he might have laughed—but the pucker of her rosy lips, the teasing sparkle in her eyes so tempting that he felt heat bloom deep in his gut instead.

He released her suddenly, making her stumble a little; almost without thinking, he caught hold of her arm to steady her. Suddenly Aoshi felt foolish, and he hated that feeling.

"My, my, is Tsurara-san here getting a little jealous of Mister Wilkinson?" Megumi's fox ears twitched Aoshi's way as she tittered behind her hand. "I suppose I should feel flattered..."

He gritted his teeth, still seeing in his mind's eye the foreigner daring to kiss Megumi's hand before going on his way; Megumi had had the most impish of smiles as she allowed him to do so—almost as if she knew Aoshi was watching, and she reveled in the idea. But then again, he did understand that such was the custom in the foreign countries, and furthermore...

"You are not mine to claim," he said slowly, quietly, as though to himself, and turned away.

"Aren't I?"

The quiet, deadly calm of her voice stopped him in his tracks. Her tone had lost all its playfulness; it had gone from sly to serious, almost sad, in a matter of moments. Not for the first time, Aoshi marveled at the way Megumi's emotions so swiftly changed, surfacing one after another in the space of a breath or a word. By now he had come to learn that it was not so much fickleness as it was her deftly alternating between her various masks and the true feelings that lay beneath.

After a moment, he finally turned to look at her, a question burning on his lips.

But she had already stepped swiftly past him and away, the purity of her face aglow in the early evening moonlight. She vanished into the house, her voice lilting teasingly in response to Kenshin's call for dinner, leaving Aoshi behind in the yard as though she had forgotten about him completely.

Aoshi stood motionless and silent for several long moments. He might never have gone in to dinner—at that moment, the peace and quiet of a perch on the roof seemed more attractive—if he had not sensed Megumi slowly approaching him once again.

He turned, regarded her blankly. Though her shadowed face did not change expression, color rushed to Megumi's cheeks under his frank stare—he wondered if she were angry, or simply irritated or embarrassed. Without a word, lowering her gaze from his at the last moment, she laid a hand on his sleeve.

He took care to shut the partitions to the engawa on their way to the dining hall. The wind was rising fast, the night air thick with rain.

_tsuzuku_

**

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**

**A/N.** Sorry everyone for an unusually short chapter! I wrestled with half a dozen drafts before I settled on this one. Wahh. But I hope this is still acceptable to your discriminating tastes, honored readers! Please await the next installment! _beams_

My thanks to those who read and reviewed! At those dark moments when I consider giving this fic up for lost, you are the ones who really help bring me back from the edge. Larissa-dono, thank you for patiently responding to each chapter. ladie shinomori flatters me way too much! I'm happy to entertain in my own little way such readers as AzaleaFaye, lawless (whose affnet fics are quite delectable!), Lidens, yvonne, and RAVEN. And to Thief Rikku—haha no need to feel bad! But I can't say I didn't thoroughly enjoy your love-cake either. Thank you!


	24. Epilogue Part Four: Kitsunegari

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part Four: Kitsunegari (Foxhunt)_

"Has she returned?"

Misao tried not to cower before Aoshi's abrupt question, his harsh tone. "Not yet," she said, worrying her lip between her teeth in nervousness; though his face remained impassive and his voice as cold as the rain that lashed at her umbrella, tension radiated off him in palpable waves. Lightning shot white into the stormcloud-shadowed courtyard for just a moment; then a grumbling boom cut off what Misao had been about to say.

She saw Aoshi would hardly have listened, anyway. The tall man, his large white coat no match for the tempest, was soaked to the skin underneath, looked more distressed than she could ever recall seeing him. A small voice inside her whined that he'd probably never been _that_ upset whenever she had been the one gone missing; but she pushed that thought aside for the jealous half-lie it was.

"I'm sure she's okay," Misao tried again, catching hold of Aoshi's waterlogged sleeve to force the man to focus on her. "Megumi-san takes care of herself. I'm sure she'll be home soon... she's probably just waiting out the worst before she comes back—"

"The river is rising." Realizing how drenched he was only now that Misao had touched his clothing, Aoshi shrugged out of his dripping coat and handed it to her. She took it mutely. "Fortunately this dojo is on higher ground. But the wooden bridges have given way, and the stone bridge has been closed off; it will be underwater before long." Misao gasped. Aoshi met her suddenly fearful gaze with a grim one. "No one will be crossing anytime soon."

"Perhaps, at the embassy—" faltered Misao, trailing off in futility as Aoshi spun on his heel and stepped out the gate once again. "If the river's flooding, Aoshi-sama, there's nothing you can do..."

"I can make sure she's safe. Besides that, there is indeed nothing I can do."

Misao fell silent then, clutching her umbrella in one hand and Aoshi's heavy wet cloak in the other.

He turned to look back at her. "Go back into the house, Misao. You mustn't get sick in this weather."

"Nor you!" she cried; but he was gone.

* * *

He kept to the walls of the buildings he passed so that the wind would not batter him as much, though the overhanging eaves did little to shield him from the rain that drummed in fingers of ice against his skin. Most of the people of Tokyo had already sought shelter in the few hours since the typhoon had set in. The street was empty save for sundry pieces of roof and fence and tree that clattered by, dragged along by the gale. 

The river he crossed by stepping swiftly along the railing of the stone bridge; but the surging mud-brown Arakawa threatened to engulf even this, and more than once he had to find a foothold on stone already beneath the water's roiling surface. As he finally landed on more solid ground on the other side, he knew there would be no more bridges for the night.

He passed a flurry of loinclothed men gathering at the riverside, beginning to pile sacks of sand in an effort to keep the river from overrunning its banks. They yelled to and fro among one another as they worked, running back and forth with buckets and shovels and other tools.

"...rain isn't likely to lighten till tomorrow..."

"The last wood bridge just collapsed!..."

"...best start moving the kids to the attic..."

"...tide's getting too high for the dike at the harbor..."

He went to the embassy first; it was too near the docks for comfort. The eerie groaning and creaking of sodden ships tossing at the pier added to the general din of rain and gusting wind and hissing trees.

He slipped past the guards with ease; they were more preoccupied with keeping warm in their damp uniforms and trying to light their cigarettes in the wind than with keeping vigil in the midst of a summer rainstorm.

The receptionist—enviably warm and dry in the yawning lobby of the stone and concrete building—said that Takani-sensei had left early that afternoon, some hours ago, back when the full force of the typhoon had yet to strike the city. She had been in the company of a few colleagues, both Japanese and foreign... Aoshi was out the door before the startled young man could say anything further.

The Genzai clinic was shuttered and locked. At his modest house, the old man said that he had not seen Megumi in days, and his two granddaughters peered up at Aoshi in consternation as he reluctantly took his leave.

Megumi had been to three different hospitals in the area since she and Aoshi had returned from Aizu. Not one of them reported having seen her that day. And he considered her a very noticeable woman indeed.

He was doggedly on his way to a fourth hospital—in another part of the city—and walking swiftly along another deserted street when he heard it. A short, strangled feminine shriek.

It might have drowned in the rain and wind, but Aoshi's keen hearing did not fail him—and by now, after searching for so long in vain, he was tensed for almost any disaster.

In an alley between gambling houses, conveniently shielded from the rain by a tower of crates and other junk, a woman feebly fought the sagging weight of a fat, drunken man as he bent over her, effectively obscuring her from view. But Aoshi saw long black hair caught in the man's fist, a pale hand weakly pushing against the slack, fleshy body that pressed obscenely against her.

He caught the sound of wet cloth ripping, and a mocking slur. "You shouldn't get your clothes wet like that, other people are going to see. What are you, a common whore?..."

He moved before he thought.

_No one will ever call her that again and live so help me—_

When the blood-red rage had cleared from his mind somewhat, he found the man sprawled unconscious in the mud, his arms and legs in unnatural angles, bleeding freely from an obliterated nose. The woman was whimpering incoherently as she shrank against the wall, clutching the shreds of her kimono to herself, tears running down her cheeks. Aoshi glanced at her. She was definitely not...

"Megumi," he breathed. The woman glanced up at him meekly. "He's not dead," Aoshi muttered, giving his victim a last, disgusted glance. Then again, at least it meant he could continue on without delay.

From the way the woman stared at him in shock, she seemed to fear him now more than she had her attacker; Aoshi did not doubt that he had looked like one possessed when he had lashed out. Not that he cared, really. He had already made to leave when a sudden thought made him turn back toward her.

"Get yourself home before someone else finds you," he said with a gentleness not even he had expected to have, as he draped his sodden shirt around her shoulders. She would at least have something with which to cover herself. The woman stared up at him without a word, and he found himself unable to keep her gaze. "Don't thank me," he spat when she opened her mouth at last. _Please, don't thank me._

He left her—gaping somewhat like a landed fish, he thought with a humor he did not feel— in the alley with the injured man, and plunged back into the thick of the storm. The rush of adrenaline was over, and a sudden weariness overtook him; the old, dark remorse from unanticipated memories did not help.

He trudged for several more blocks, trying to ignore the persistent voice that told him Megumi was not to be found in any hospital—at least, none he knew of. He was trying to dismiss it as fatigue, mere discouragement, but...

He stopped short in his tracks. His jaw so firmly set it trembled, he stood motionless for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the rain streaming down his face, suddenly and resolutely weighing a new idea.

Then—with a heart suddenly much heavier than his rain-soaked coat could ever be—he changed direction, and set off for the Chuo district.

* * *

"I'm extremely sorry for all this trouble," said Megumi for what she felt was the fortieth time. 

But James Wilkinson merely placed before her a plate of cake and a cup of steaming tea. "I will have none of that, Lady Megumi," he said, smiling, for the fortieth time. He pronounced her name with an odd, waltzlike cadence, a peculiar drawing out of the "u", but otherwise it rolled off his tongue quite comfortably. Or perhaps she had just grown used to him.

Megumi permitted herself a smile in response—she really _was_ beginning to get fond of cake, after all—and sat back against the lush brocaded sofa. Picking up the cup with some apprehension, she was delighted to discover that the tea inside was green and unsweetened.

Wilkinson was standing at the window, looking out at the rain-battered city and shaking his head. "You certainly get some powerful weather in this part of the world."

"This time of year, these storms _are_ common," agreed Megumi, helping herself to a bite of cake. "We adapt, of course, but I suppose Nature will always get the last word in."

"In my own humble country we hardly get this much wind, but the rain can go on for weeks on end. Drone, drone, drone, on and on and on," he said, rolling his eyes while Megumi tried not to laugh at his imitation of the sound of falling rain. "We try to adapt, of course"—he turned and grinned at her, drew the curtains over the window, and went over to where his own bit of cake stood in a dish on the table—"but the boredom usually wins out just the same."

Megumi nodded, chewing thoughtfully on her cake, glad for the excuse not to respond since her fledgling English had yet to keep up with the talkative Briton.

"Here, now"—and Wilkinson eyed her critically over his plate of confectionery—"are you sure, milady, that no one will be worried sick over you? It's getting on to suppertime and you've told no one you're here..."

With a pang, Megumi thought of Aoshi. _You are not mine to claim_, he had told her Damn that ice-cold voice of his—not even she could tell sometimes what he was truly thinking when he used those tones. He might have been angry; or had he been saddened? He might even have been admiring her—but which was it really? She had longed to know what exactly he had meant by his softly spoken words, but something had come over her that night, hearing him say such things, and she had been too caught up in her own sudden fear and uncertainty to dare to ask.

She wondered if he were at the dojo now. Was he waiting for her patiently, or was he rampaging in her unexplained absence like the storm itself? Was he even waiting for her at all?

"I really thought I would beat the storm going home," she muttered with a sigh, fidgeting with the elegantly sculpted handle of the European-style teacup. "Why, are you trying to make me leave already?" she asked more playfully, raising an eyebrow at her host.

"If only for propriety's sake, milady," and though the teasing nickname was borne on his voice as lightly as always, Megumi could hear the graver undertone. "It would not do for others to hear of you staying alone with a man, even for only an evening."

She smiled at him affectionately. Wilkinson was, for all his jokes and chatter and his formidably bulky beef-fed body, a good-hearted man to whom she had found it easy to warm up.

"I'd say you have much more to fear from me than I from you, James-san."

He joined her chuckling. "I would quite agree, milady."

They had settled into a companionable silence as they finished their tea when a hasty knocking came at the door.

"This must be the extra kimono we ordered, and then we can come to a proper dinner at last," said Wilkinson with a wink, standing up from the table.

As he made for the door, Megumi glanced around the spacious suite as discreetly as she could. Her kimono had gotten wet in the rain, in her insistence on attempting the risky crossing of the river earlier that afternoon; Wilkinson had insisted on obtaining new clothes from the hotel staff, and now she wondered where she might be able to change in some decency...

But instead of a maidservant's voice reaching her from the door, it was a man's—low, urgent with barely contained force, and instantly teasing her every nerve with its beloved familiarity.

"Aoshi!" she cried out gladly, hurrying toward the doorway and seeing the tall figure looming within it.

"So you are here," he said, turning haunted blue eyes to her—and his eyes and his voice hinted at far too much to fully understand in one glimpse, in those few clipped words. Relief, doubt, anger, exhaustion... With a sudden new uncertainty Megumi stopped in front of him, searching his pale, expressionless face for she knew not what.

Only dimly did she realize that he was dripping rainwater on the floor from his dark suit—rather, his pants, since his shirt was mysteriously missing; and her face flamed with embarrassment when she remembered she was wearing Wilkinson's suit jacket on top of her damp kimono.

"You know this person, Takani-sensei?" Wilkinson addressed her formally whenever others were in hearing.

Slowly, as though in a daze, Megumi tore her eyes away from the sodden onmitsu to the dapper Englishman and nodded. "Yes, yes I do, James-san. This is... Shinomori Aoshi."

What, indeed, to call him? My friend? My lover? She decided not to elaborate. Beside her she sensed Aoshi stiffening, though whether it was because of what she had just said, what she hadn't said, or to whom she had just said it, or all, or neither, she could not say.

"My apologies then, sir, though I'm afraid my rudeness is quite unforgivable." Wilkinson started to offer his hand, then caught himself and bowed awkwardly instead. "My name is James Wilkinson. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is all mine," said Aoshi coolly, returning the bow with an accustomed grace that defied his wretched apparance.

"You must come in and dry yourself." Placing a hand on Aoshi's bare shoulder, not daring to meet his gaze, Megumi quickly stifled the unease in her heart; for now there were more important things to do, and a sense of professional responsibility felt more comfortable than any of her shifting emotions. "James-san, if you would be so kind as to—"

"Of course, milady. Everything of mine is at your disposal."

Wilkinson was as cheery as ever, but he had slipped, there, with her nickname. And she knew—by the searing glance Aoshi gave her—that he had noticed.

Of course, she told herself miserably, it was Aoshi's business and his nature to be unfailingly observant.

"I shall trouble you no longer with my presence," he bit out, stepping away from her. He spoke in Japanese, so that their foreign host, now hastily building up the fire in the hearth, wouldn't understand. "I merely wished to ensure your wellbeing. You seem to be in excellent hands"—he bowed to her; such mockery in such a perfectly dispassionate tone! Megumi's hands curled into fists—"and I trust you will remain so until the danger has passed; so I will take my leave."

"Aoshi, don't be an idiot." She might have slapped him if they hadn't been guests in another's home. "There's nothing to see here. I was on my way home already when they closed the bridges, and James-san was kind enough to give me shelter—"

"—in which shelter you are free to stay however long you wish, of course. The storm gives no indication of stopping anytime soon." Aoshi bowed again. "I will go back to the dojo; the Himuras will appreciate word of your safety." He turned on his heel.

"Aoshi!" she hissed, trailing him to the door. Quickly she glanced behind them; but Wilkinson had disappeared, presumably to get some warm dry clothing. The two men were of similar build. Aoshi paid her no heed, but walked in swift, smooth strides toward the door and out into the empty hallway.

Megumi had had enough. She ran out to catch up with him and grabbed hold of his arm, forcing him to a stop. "What on earth is wrong with you? You're acting like—like a _woman_, for heaven's sake!"

"I apologize." At his response, Megumi flinched. He had his voice under control now—it was smooth and hard and impervious as ice. He gazed at her impassively. "After searching this city for so long, believe me when I say I am pleased to find you well and safe."

Megumi felt tears of frustration rise to her eyes despite herself. "I'm sorry, Aoshi," she said quietly; their voices carried in the empty corridor, and the door to Wilkinson's rooms still stood open. "I got to the river too late; they'd already closed most of the bridges. I tried to cross anyway, but it was already too dangerous..."

"So you ended up here?" Only he could ask a question so loaded and still sound as if he were merely asking about the weather.

Megumi glanced up at him, brows furrowed. "Aoshi, I told you—there's nothing going on here. James-san is a good friend and nothing more. Don't you trust me?"

He paused, meeting her gaze with a mirrorlike one of his own. "I cannot trust someone who comes and goes as she pleases, without a thought for others' concern or expectations."

She stepped back, stunned. He might as well have hit her.

"I shall therefore refrain from burdening you with such limitations on your personal freedom." He turned and strode swiftly down the hall toward the stairs at the other end. "I shall inform the rest that you are in no danger from the storm. I'm sure the English gentleman will see to you every need in the meantime."

For long minutes after he had gone, Megumi stood alone in the corridor, numbly clutching Wilkinson's jacket around herself, trying not to cry.

_tsuzuku_

_

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_

**A/N.**There, I tried to make up for the previous short chapter with a fairly long one this time... Ü (HAH! Beat _that_ smiley, overzealous FFnet harmless-smiley-killers!)

On behalf of a woman I very much love and admire, I'm sorry to everyone who's not thinking too highly of the Megumi I've written so far. Righting that balance between her and Aoshi (who is coming off as something of a saint, I think... perhaps too much, since I do like my characters human.Ü) will make up most of this epilogue.

Kisses of love and gratitude to readers and reviewers!


	25. Epilogue Part Five: Reading Ki

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part Five: Reading Ki_

He had blown it.

He had had one chance to bring her back with him, one chance to tell him how badly he'd fallen apart in his concern for her, one chance to make amends for his chaotic behavior...

...and instead, he'd practically insulted her to her face for being herself—independent, free-spirited, focused, ambitious. He'd managed to manipulate these noble qualities into sounding like irresponsibility and selfishness. Which was absurd, since those qualities were largely the reason he had always held her in such high regard in the first place.

And then pride, stupid pride had hardened over his helter-skelter feelings, making him leave the hotel where she was now staying with that gaijin, even after he had heard—with his well-trained ears—the beginnings of a sob.

Oh, and a whisper. "Aoshi, you moron..."

He supposed he deserved it.

She wasn't supposed to hang on to him, after all. That was exactly what he wanted for her, wasn't it? That she should go off to Europe looking forward to everything that lay ahead? That she would strip the burden of a demon like him from her spirit and free herself for the thousand other, better, more _normal_ men that waited for her to illuminate their dreary lives?

She was undoubtedly furious with him now, gathering the tatters of her self-respect and swearing him off forever. She had no use for needy, jealous, irrationally emotional berserkers turning her own best traits against her. He supposed that was good, then; he had actually managed to accomplish his objective.

Finding a replacement would likely be easy, as well as entertaining. After all, if she could attract so many admirers within less than a week of staying in Tokyo, three years would undoubtedly find her practically shoveling them off her doorstep...

Aoshi wanted to throw his teacup and smash it on something, but first, it was part of Kaoru's treasured tea set, and second, he'd had quite enough of acting on emotional impulses as it was.

He settled for staring out his window at the leaden sky, which was still pouring rain, and longing half-heartedly for sleep. It was around one in the morning.

"What are you doing still awake?"

He threw this none too graciously at Misao, who, he sensed now, was standing just outside his door.

She entered with a tray. "I could ask the same of you," she said lightly, taking a seat next to him on the tatami. "I got a little hungry."

She held out a plate of mochi to him with a smile. The fragrance of fresh tea wafted to Aoshi's nose from a pot on her tray.

He shook his head silently at the offered treats and resumed staring dully out the window as she refilled his cup.

"You haven't even had dinner yet, Aoshi-sama. Just get some anytime you feel like it." She placed the dish between them with elaborate care. She paused, then, "Did you find her?" she asked, more quietly.

Aoshi closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Where is she? Is she safe?"

He chose to answer the second question. "Yes."

"You know, you look like shit."

"Thank you, Misao"—he opened his eyes with a silent sigh—"that will be all."

Misao grinned. Just a shadow of her old, gamine grin, but a grin nonetheless. "Jiya sent me to do a whole bunch of errands over here," she said, setting down her cup, "but the main point was really to give you this."

She drew a small box from an inner pocket and laid it in front of him. Aoshi, hardly in a mood to be entertained, gave the little black thing a cursory glance.

Then he frowned, and picked it up.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Misao smiled wistfully. "We all just want you to be happy, Aoshi-sama."

Aoshi looked away, away from the suspicious glimmer in her ocean eyes, and opened the little Western-style box. Inside, fire and ice flashed from a golden ring.

"And of course, Jiya is not about to be left behind by modern fashions," sighed Misao in mock scorn.

The gems twinkled shyly in the weak lamplight.

He knew what it meant, of course. And Megumi would too. She would love such a beautiful ring. It would suit her perfectly—she had such delicate hands. Women loved pretty things like that. And as for men... Men would see those brilliant jewels flashing against her fair skin, that slim band around her finger, and would know that she was marked, would know she was his and his alone, for no other man to touch...

Numb with shock—and that happened very rarely indeed—Aoshi snapped the box shut, put it down, and pushed it away, back toward Misao. He put his head in his hands.

"Leave, Misao. I wish to be alone."

Misao blinked in surprise. "What's wrong, Aoshi-sama?"

"You shouldn't call me that anymore." His voice was muffled through his fingers, but no less icy than usual.

She felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment. "You're right... I probably shouldn't." Calmly she poured herself another cup of tea, noting without remark that Aoshi had barely touched his. "But I'm not going to just leave you to wallow in your misery some more, either."

He ignored her. He supposed he had plenty of experience at that—simply staring straight ahead and ignoring her.

"Will you quit ignoring me?" She rolled her eyes. "C'mon"—she tried a more coaxing tone—"tell me what's wrong, Aoshi. Maybe I can help."

"No."

Misao blinked. This was the first time in her life Aoshi had refused her anything so flatly. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no, Misao." _Let it go. Let it go. For your sake..._

She frowned and put down her cup before she broke it in her fist. "What, you think I can't handle it?"

_Yes_.

"You think I'm still too young? Still a child? You think I wouldn't understand?" When Aoshi still made no response, she clenched her fists, longing to hit him. "Answer me, Aoshi. Are you still trying to protect me? Well, I don't need that!"

Still he was silent. Tears burned in Misao's eyes. Abruptly she turned from him, faced the window as he did, curling up to hug her knees to her chest.

"I didn't want to come back here, you know," she said, petulantly. "I was pretty tired from all that walking and... no, I didn't want to see you anytime soon. I thought Jiya was crazy. To get back from Tokyo and then to have that damned ring waved in my face... I thought I would go mad. I didn't even use my kunai on him. I was that upset.

"But Jiya... He wouldn't give me a moment to myself. He said I'd have a lot of time to mope when I traveled back to Tokyo. He said that loving someone meant wanting them to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me." She smiled bitterly. "He asked me then if I'd ever really, truly, loved you. Like I'd always said I did."

Aoshi lifted his head at that, stared at Misao, her shoulders slumped, her thin fingers fidgeting with the end of her braid. Her cheek was streaked with tears, but a small, grim smile played around her mouth. She stared straight ahead, not meeting his gaze.

"Do you really love her?" said Misao softly.

"More than I believe I can take," he said, not at all humorous.

"I bet you yelled at her when you found her." A half-smile tugged at Misao's mouth.

She knew him too well. "Yes, you could say that."

Her smile broadened. "But she was okay?"

"She was... safe. Someone was looking after her. She did try to come home but she failed to make it in time..." With every word he felt remorse twist further, deeper into his own soul. "I said some things to her to which I... neglected to give proper consideration first."

Misao shrugged. "So you lost your temper. Happens to everybody. Especially to Megumi-san," she said as an afterthought, chuckling. "She'll understand. So you two can kiss and make up—not that I really want to see that—and you still have a few days to yourselves before she leaves..."

"I regret the effort you have made in vain, Misao, but you can take that back to Okina."

Misao stopped. She stared at him. He seemed in earnest. Aoshi was, once again, staring dully out the window at the rain.

"You can't mean that, Aoshi."

"..." Aoshi took a perfunctory sip from his stone-cold tea.

"I can't believe it! You _idiot!"_ Misao screeched, instinctively punching him.

To her amazement and horror, the punch actually connected. Aoshi made neither movement nor response, not even a grunt, as her fist solidly landed in his cheek.

Misao was more affected than he was.

"Ohmygosh! I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!" Frantically babbling, she examined the bruise on his cheek. Already an angry purple color was coalescing on his skin. "Aoshi-sama, please forgive me! I didn't think... I didn't... well, I didn't think you wouldn't block it!"

Aoshi merely sighed and muttered something that sounded like "Sit down and let me explain."

Promptly Misao took her seat again, kneeling daintily before him with impeccable posture, determined to behave if it killed her. Mournully she noted that the swelling over his cheekbone had begun.

"She has attracted considerable attention in society, and not solely for her professional talent." Well, that was one way to put it. "It is attention she naturally enjoys, to a certain reasonable extent, and I believe it is something she should have liberty to explore as fully as possible. Much has happened in the past few months; I cannot underestimate what can possibly happen in three years. I intend to allow her complete freedom to pursue what interests she may develop in the time to come."

And that, Aoshi realized with in a kind of hollow surprise, was that.

Misao sat beside him in silence, eyes downcast and hidden in the sweep of her hair, absent-mindedly turning the little teacup around and around in her hands. Aoshi watched her wordlessly.

He started to berate himself. He had taken Misao at her word... but really, it had only been a month since they had had that talk in the dojo. Only a month since he had finally, unequivocally, told her that the affection she had sought was not his to give. From ten years of patience and admiration and love, she had painstakingly woven a much-cherished dream—and he had taken that dream in his battle-coarsened hands and broken it.

Surely four scant weeks were not enough to heal such a wound. Aoshi braced himself, half expecting tears to start falling any minute...

But the eyes she raised to him were clear and untroubled. "So what does Megumi-san think about all of this?" Misao asked pensively, tilting her head to one side like an inquisitive bird.

Aoshi blinked. "I... don't know yet."

Misao frowned. "You don't know? You haven't asked her?"

Suddenly Aoshi felt very, very ridiculous.

Misao slapped a hand to her forehead. "She has absolutely _no_ idea this is what you're thinking, has she?" Putting her hands on her hips, she glared at him like an indignant nanny. "Has it ever occurred to you, Aoshi-sama, that you don't have to do all the thinking for the both of you?"

_Ah,_ thought Aoshi with intense concentration, as though this were the most important and mind-bogglingly fascinating fact in the world, _the rain seems to be easing up._

"How about—'Megumi,'" Misao intoned beside him in what sounded ominously like a near-perfect Aoshi imitation, "'just in case you're wondering, even though I don't even know if you are and that totally scares me, and that just indicates how much of a doofus I am when it comes to dealing with my emotions, I have no intention to propose marriage to you whether you like it or not, because I want you free to find other men who aren't obsessive, territorial control freaks like me, even though I love you insanely and it's pretty obvious to everyone else that you love me too'?"

She tumbled over on the mat convulsing with laughter at her own joke. Aoshi sipped serenely at his tea, refusing to honor her humor with so much as a glare.

Okay, so she was annoyingly accurate. He would give her that, at least.

"Yare yare," sighed Misao, grinning wildly and picking herself up, dabbing at her teary eyes with her sleeve. "Aoshi-sama, you are incorrigible. I'm going to bed. Thanks for the chat; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did."

Getting up, she kissed him on his bruised cheek with unexpected tenderness. He blinked.

_I love you, Aoshi-sama._

She left the pot of tea and the plate of mochi there by his side.

_And I'll never stop calling you that, either._

Many minutes had passed after Misao had left before Aoshi thought to put down the little box he clutched tightly in his fist. His cheek still stung from Misao's punch, but her light, chaste kiss made the pain seem worlds away.

He picked up a piece of mochi and began to eat, shaking his head ruefully.

He was smiling.

_tsuzuku_

**

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**

**A/N.** I was threshing out this chapter in my head and I suddenly remembered Death and Dream from Neil Gaiman's _Sandman_. Especially from #8, "The Sound of Her Wings." I'm not really trying that hard to pull it off in that particular way, but it rather fits, don't you think? Moody-broody Morpheus does seem to have some things in common with our Icicle Boy. And of course, Misao is as perky as they come.

Just a few more chapters to go...

This is a much crazier ending than the one I originally wrote. Sigh. I'm not sure if this is right. But would you say that after all the general gloom and doom of this long story, this is not as terrible as I think it is?Ü

...so I guess I'm asking you, kind reader, to please review and tell me if this is good or bad, or could be better. And not just because I'm a review ho, either.Ü You're all my betas, in a manner of speaking! _beams_ I might not immediately go back and fix these things, but I'm pretty sure I'll be doing that sometime. Gotta do it properly, and all that.

Sniffly hugs of thanks to **eriesalia**, **conspirator** (whew! such heavyweights! I bow before thee!Ü), kindred spirits **ladie shinomori** and **ak0** who know the value of drama (hee hee), **devil** who has taken the time and effort to read and review despite her well-articulated contrary views, **yvonne **and **sueb262** who are simply delightful, **Larissa Hyuga** and **AzaleaFaye** who are always so very kind, **lawless** whose brevity, the soul of wit, has made me smile, and **Ak** who honors me with a compliment I myself have paid to those greats who have gone before me.Ü


	26. Epilogue Part Six: Heart's Ease

**Mune no Monogatari**

by Mirune Keishiko

_Epilogue_

_Part Six: Heart's Ease_

"Make me no promises."

Strong he was, no doubt; power pulsed, finely checked, in the lean muscled arms that encircled her, the broad shoulders that curved protectively toward her, the long legs that bore her weight as emotion overcame her and she slumped against him, crying without sound. Strong enough he was that he used to terrify her simply with his nearness, in years long past and carefully stored away in both their memories; strong and silent as always, he held her now, let her weep as he could not, partook gratefully of her warmth and solid presence in his embrace as he knew he would not in time to come—and perhaps never again.

Strong he was, but he had to steel himself against the searching gaze she raised to him. He forced himself to hold still, to not look away, and let her see in his own eyes the weakness he knew he should not hide from her.

"Do not even wear it—yet," he continued, insistently.

He did not like promises. Not ones he felt might well not be kept. He feared he might seize upon them too tightly, bury too much of himself in their delicious, desirable, slippery words; he did not want to be tempted by shadows, no matter how beautifully or lovingly made, and thus become a shadow himself. He was strong, certainly, but not invincible, not immortal, merely human, as he had come to know all too well—and a good fighter knew his limitations.

And even if such promises _were_ kept—ah, but at what cost, perhaps? What were two months compared to three years, after all? Emotions were funny contradictory things, and both of them knew that. So powerful and yet so fleeting; so easy to ignore, but so difficult to entirely forget. Aoshi knew the choice he had already made: He felt sure he would desire life with no other woman but her. But he needed her to be free before she made the same choice for herself. If, as Misao had instructed him, she agreed.

He allowed himself to meet her gaze, stare for stare. After a moment, she looked away, snapped the little black box shut in her hand with a quick, angry movement.

And then—just like that—he knew she understood. A shiver ran down along his spine—relief or gladness or gratitude or sudden, desperate desire, he could hardly tell which.

How much had he been afraid that she would spurn him? That she would seize at this rare moment of weakness with scorn rather than acceptance? He only knew now that something had laid hold of him in all these long moments up to her comprehension, strangling the breath out of him, constraining his heart for much longer than he had thought—and that, now that she burrowed against him in complete albeit agonized agreement, he suddenly felt oddly, sorrowfully free.

"All right," she whispered, clutching at him as though she were drowning and he the only hope for her survival. "I won't."

She thrust the box deep into an inner pocket, next to her heart. "I won't."

She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head and rubbed her tear-wet cheek against his chest, trying to suppress the sobs. "I won't."

---

In the shadows of the moonlit training hall where no one was likely to find her, Misao, too, was crying. She sat curled up in a corner, her knees to her chin, burying her agonized, keening moans in her shirt; because she loved him so very much, she only wanted him to be happy; she was trying her very best, but it was _so_ hard to let go.

---

Megumi did wear the ring that night. Deep into the wee hours of the morning that she was to set sail, as Aoshi slept beside her, worn out at last, his arms curved around her naked waist and her long hair spilling like ink across his broad chest, she awoke from a light sleep. Gently she disentangled her hand from the clasp of his fingers. Lighting the lamp by her bed, she gazed in mute wonder at the sparkle of ruby and sapphire against her pale fingers for many long minutes. Fire and ice. Despite herself, a tear splashed down onto her arm.

"You women can never resist jewelry, can you?" he slurred teasingly from the bed, opening eyes that gleamed in the light as no gem ever could.

"No better than you silly men can resist us women," smiled Megumi, blowing out the lamp and quickly crawling back into the futon. Warm, questing hands found chilled skin soon enough, but they slid unerringly down until the small, cold edges of gold and stone bit into his fingertips. Their fingers intertwined beneath the blanket, nestled in the soft downy hollow of her stomach.

"When we meet again," he breathed into her ear, half hidden in black silk, "wear it—or not, as you choose."

She nodded without a word, not trusting herself to speak; he bent his head over hers and kissed the telltale track of tears down her face. She turned then to meet mouth with mouth, almost startling even him with her intensity.

And the sun rose that day with a brisk wind that cheerily rang the chimes hanging from the dojo's eaves, set the flowers by the riverbank bobbing gaily, and fattened the sails of the _Alianora_ where she sat placidly at port, destined for England.

---

Three Years Later

_16th year of Meiji (Spring, 1883)_

Some time later, when he had finally quite finished meting out her so-called punishment and left her exhausted, exhilarated, and almost, but not quite, remorseful, she thought back to that sun-dappled afternoon.

All right, so it might have been a little _too_ wicked to hold him in suspense as she had. He had likely been tormenting himself with all kinds of woeful possibilities on arriving at the party and failing to see the ring on her hand, as they had agreed. So maybe she _had_ disobeyed the rules of their agreement—fiddled with them a bit—bent them just a little, only in fun, of course.

And anyway, she had wanted—needed—to see how he reacted first to seeing her again after so long. She had needed to be sure. She didn't want to be tempted by shadows, no matter how beautiful, especially if she feared she might have made them herself.

But then the look in his eyes—no longer quite so smooth and mirrorlike—as he gazed in shock first at the glittering gems on their golden chain, then at her, told her everything she needed to know.

"Shall we have a talk?" she said quietly, stoic in the face of the joy that rose in her, stubborn in wanting to hear it directly from his lips first.

She almost forgot to breathe under the intensity of his gaze on her.

"If you wish," he said at last, rising to his feet, his brilliant blue eyes catching the sunlight—or was that a spark of amusement? Megumi suppressed a shudder, imagining the thoughts running through his mind—_I'll get you for that later_. Both vengeance and mirth. "Though I myself have no questions." He held out his hand to her.

She accepted it and stood up as well. She couldn't tell whose fingers were the first to tighten around whose.

"Leaving so soon, Aoshi?" asked Kenshin calmly, yet as his bright glance settled on Megumi, she found herself flushing.

Aoshi opened his mouth to speak, but Misao beat him to it. "Try not to make too much noise, okay, kids?" Nonchalantly she popped a piece of sushi in her mouth—and promptly spat it out as Kaoru whapped her over the head, blushing furiously.

"Misao-chan!" Kaoru hissed, to everyone else's laughter.

"It's very rude to just pick up people like that and carry them around like logs without their permission, you know," sniffed Megumi as Aoshi set her gently down in a copse of sakura, far from the rest of the Kenshingumi who were only now discovering their sudden absence.

"Then next time I shall make sure to secure your approval first." Blithely ignoring the look of annoyance that crossed her face, he undid the clasp of the chain around her neck and slid off the ring. "You wanted to talk?"

Her irritation evaporated in a moment. Megumi unconsciously held her breath as he paused first—inquiringly—then, at her mute nod, slipped the ring on her finger. Tears blurred her vision.

"What's a few more hours?" She smiled. Threading her fingers through his hair, she pulled him down for a kiss worth three long years of waiting.

Spring, Meiji 16th.

And very peaceful days.

_owari_

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**A/N.** My apologies to the great Yumi Komagata-sama who wrote the lovely award-winning fanfic with the same title as this chapter. I didn't mean to copy it, honest. Just seemed a suitable title for the last chapter of a tale of the heart. "Heart's Rest" just doesn't have that ring to it. (sweatdrop)

I am more thankful than I can ever possibly express to all those who have read this humble story and written me about it. The experience of writing for people and then finding out how they've been touched somehow by what I've written is probably unique to us amateur fanfic writers. Thank you for sharing yourselves with me in much the same way I've tried to share myself with you. (Even the "please update soon" folks. Hehe. You gave me that much-needed kick in the butt.)

Special thanks to **sueb262**, whose sharing of her own particular thoughts and feelings about this story and others is deeply appreciated. To **eriesalia**, **Trupana**, **Shimizu Hitomi**, **mij**, **chiisailammy** wherever you may be, **Cherie Dee**, **Amberle**, **Conspirator**, **larissahyuga**, **leila winters**, and all the other ladies and gents who have stood heroically for good fanfic writing and/or the Fire and Ice fandom—three cheers for all! For **yvonne**, **Ak0**, **ladie shinomori**, **invictus0628**, **kunthea**, **Lidens** and all the rest, I hope to see _your_ contributions to the RK fandom soon.Ü

I don't want to go on about the credits much more, first because it must already sound boring and melodramatic, and second because it would sound like I'm leaving this fandom for good, and while there's a chance of that happening (blame Real Life ;p), I prefer to think I've still got some stuff up my sleeves. See you around, minna-dono!

shiko-chan


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